Straight on 'til Morning
by ElsBells
Summary: The touring company of Peter Pan lands in a sunny hotel by the bay. Quinn's a charmer in bow ties and Rachel's a mess, and all the world is made of faith and trust and pixie dust. Faberry.
1. Chapter 1

**Straight on 'til Morning**

**Chapter 1**

Rachel hadn't picked the hotel. She never has any say in it, like the rest of the cast and crew, who do their jobs and play their roles and sleep where they're told to after living it up night after night. The producers – the financers, the planners – had put them in a beautifully concealed dump in Seattle, and then a newly renovated Hyatt in San Jose with complementary muffins that Rachel had not been able to stop eating.

She really never knows what to expect when it comes to touring accommodations, so the Pacific Palomar is a nice surprise.

It's a grand place, a spot of luxury on San Diego Bay, with shiny steel siding that reflects pinks and oranges on pleasant mornings, gray on cloudy days, and always, reliably, the ocean blue of the harbor.

"It's like a mood ring," the young woman at the front desk had said when she'd commented on this.

She'd told her how, on sunny days, when the Embarcadero is crowded and a baseball game has cluttered the city, the hotel surface is a mirror for boats and clouds, and on the rare, dismal, rainy days, the building will blend into the gray of the sky, distinguishable only by the bright green lights that form a dotted outline.

Rachel decides that it's far better than the giant marble place with lice pillows and a diving board in Nevada, and the touring company spends the day excitedly wandering the city.

It's evening by the time they realize that they're short a room, and Rachel is the one riding the elevator down at 10 PM, shuffling past the bar and through the cool, quiet lobby to the reception area.

Her flip-flops echo around her and she curls her toes to stop them from making a sound.

There's a different woman at the desk now – a young, rakish blonde in a white button-down and bow tie, immersed in a book – and Rachel's abruptly self-conscious about her lopsided ponytail and glasses, her t-shirt with, "PUG LIFE," in solid block letters.

She's soft and messy, out of place in the echoing lobby.

The woman – Quinn Fabray, according to her polished palm tree pin – has an amused little smile on her face, and she carefully marks her place and slides the book away with a warm, "Good evening. How may I help you?"

Her voice is sweet and melodic, and Rachel puts her palms flat on the cool counter.

"I'm with _Peter Pan_, and we seem to have…belatedly discovered that we are short a room."

Quinn nods and taps away at her keyboard, humming lightly to herself. Rachel doesn't recognize the tune, and she's observing Quinn's face, her bright hazel eyes, to guess how old she is, when the humming stops.

Quinn is smiling when she asks, "Rachel Berry?"

"Yes, I checked us in earlier."

"Your reservation was for twelve rooms. Is that right?"

Rachel nods, tapping her fingers against the counter in annoyance. "The people who booked the rooms didn't take into account the three members of the pirate crew that we added after the disaster in San Jose."

Quinn hums wisely, widens her eyes like she'd witnessed the disaster, and it makes Rachel smile.

"We do have rooms available, so I'll set you up with another one," Quinn offers.

Rachel agrees and leans against the counter, arms crossed on top of it. She watches as Quinn types and decides that there's no way she's older than twenty-five, because of the miniscule horses on her bow tie.

"Are you cast or crew, Ms. Berry?" Quinn wonders.

Rachel props her hand on her chin. "Just crew."

"Not _just_," Quinn glances at her. "I'm excited to see the show."

"You're interested in theatre?"

Quinn's gaze is still on the computer monitor when she grins and says, "I see everything that comes to the Civic Theater. I've been waiting for _Peter Pan_."

Rachel hums thoughtfully, tiredly.

"That's not – I'm not asking you for tickets," Quinn says quickly, looking at her. "That wouldn't be professional at all. I'll get my own."

Rachel lifts her eyebrows, amused.

Quinn's much less poised – definitely a little flushed – as she quietly finishes up, and she fumbles to fit the new room keys into a paper sleeve and hands them to Rachel with a bright smile.

"Don't hesitate to let us know if you need anything else, Ms. Berry."

Rachel's lowered her estimation of twenty-five to twenty-three now, five years younger than herself, because Quinn's sweet energy and honesty is charming. She takes the card and returns Quinn's smile with a self-assured, "You can call me Rachel."

She's turning around, flip-flops echoing, when Quinn says, "Goodnight, Rachel," and Rachel looks back to see her smiling down at her book.

* * *

><p>Rachel is up before the sun the next morning, and she does laps in the pool for half an hour and finishes a vegan omelet before her roommate even rolls out of bed. While she's an expert at getting the show up quickly, Sam's a lazy problem solver, part of the lighting crew and capable of getting dressed and out the door in four minutes flat.<p>

He looks like a mess, but he does it with a smile.

Rachel's pulling out her card to unlock the door when Sam swings it open, wearing a tank top and a backpack, and bustles out, nudging Rachel along.

"We're goin' for a walk," he declares, grinning.

"We are not," Rachel says, just out of principle. She doesn't make any move to stop walking and Sam is mostly sensible.

He's far more pleasant than her former roommates – first, a loud redhead from Boston who slept like a vampire, then an Amazonian model-type who'd worked on costumes and brought the same deep-voiced hulk of a football player to the room every other night.

Sam's jolly, "We're goin' to see an aircraft carrier!" is more than welcome.

"I have to stop by the theater," Rachel says, and he easily agrees.

They greet a few other cast and crew members in the hallway, and then in the lobby on the way to the concierge. The valet is dapper in a deep blue vest, curly brown hair, and he greets them with a pompous smile and playful blue eyes.

"Can I call you two a cab?"

Sam nods, already rummaging through one of his backpack pockets for cash.

"Thanks, uh…" he squints at the valet's palm tree pin, "Jesse. Thanks, Jesse."

Rachel smiles. Sam's made buddies out of the valets, bartenders, and bellboys at every place they'd stayed, a particularly novel concept in the bigger cities, and Rachel's reaped the benefits.

Her t-shirt today says, "Get ready for the alpacalypse," around the outline of an alpaca, and Jesse's twinkling eyes are on her when he says, "My pleasure. It'll be just a moment."

"This is the fanciest place so far," Sam murmurs, looking up at the ceiling like he hadn't seen it yesterday.

Rachel hums. "There's a hot tub _and_ a diving board at the pool."

Sam gasps, looking at her. "No way."

"Seriously."

"Really?"

Rachel snorts. "Yes, Sam. Seriously. Really."

Sam's still reeling when Rachel catches sight of Quinn across the lobby, striding – _gliding_ – purposefully towards the elevators with sharp clicks of her heels. She thinks of adjusting twenty-three up to around twenty-seven, because Quinn's in a black dress and blue blazer, emanating authority.

Quinn glances at the concierge and does a double-take, slowing slightly. She lifts her hand with a small smile, and Rachel glances around to be sure she's not actually looking at somebody else before waving back.

Quinn's smile widens then, because the alpaca's big enough to be seen from distance.

"Your cab's ready, ma'am," Jesse says warmly, gesturing towards the glass doors. "Let me know if I can do anything else for you."

Sam steps forward with a tip in one hand and a wad of lollipops, guitar picks, and condoms in the other, wearing his backpack backwards on his chest, and Jesse adds, "And you, sir," to his statement as an afterthought.

Rachel can tell he's stopped himself from making a comment because his smile's lopsided, like he's holding back laughter at his own thoughts. She thanks him and he winks at her and returns to his concierge cubby.

Quinn changes direction – a guest's iPhone lodged underneath a vending machine on the fifteenth floor can wait – and she crosses the lobby and leans casually against the concierge desk, eyes on Jesse.

"Quinn Fabray," he greets, and his knowing grin makes her want to fire him.

Her voice is clipped when she asks, "You weren't flirting with her, were you?"

"Who?" Jesse tips his head innocently.

She doesn't bother replying, just holds his gaze.

Jesse smiles, "Not blatantly. You've got a classy establishment here."

Quinn eyes his vest, reaches up to straighten his collar while Jesse stands patiently with his hands in his pockets, watching her.

"Why?" he chirps, eyebrow lifted.

Quinn shakes her head and steps aside to nonchalantly read off his clipboard, see what he'd parked that morning.

"It would be unprofessional," she murmurs.

Jesse stands right next to her, so they're both leaning against the concierge desk, reading the clipboard. He's still smiling, always amused, when he loudly whispers, "Who is she?"

"Part of the _Peter Pan_ crew."

Jesse nods. He nudges her shoulder a moment later and says, "Is that blonde guy her boyfriend?"

Quinn cuts her gaze up to his, pushing away from the desk. "How would I know that?"

"You know everything."

Quinn cracks a smile, nodding. "I do, yes."

Jesse taps the black frames resting on his nose and says, "Her glasses match mine. I have an in. I'll hook you up."

It's said with a playful grin, as Jesse's backing towards the glass doors, and Quinn gets out, "No, don't even try – " before the door swings shut behind him.

* * *

><p>Sam's chosen a barbeque place for lunch, purely because a section of <em>Top Gun<em> was filmed there, and Rachel sits across from him with a monster plate of fries while he works on a full rack of ribs. There's a large mural on one wall, representing everything Kansas City – fountains and wheat fields and Jayhawks and _The Wizard of Oz_ – and _Top Gun_ memorabilia everywhere else.

Rachel's halfway through her fries when Sam wipes the excess barbeque sauce off his lips and says, "So, listen."

"Oh no," Rachel drawls, smiling.

"It's not totally bad."

Rachel tosses a fry onto his plate. "Just partly bad."

"No, not bad at all," Sam says, eating the fry and then investigating where it had landed, a puppy looking for more. Rachel blocks him from stealing any off her plate and waits expectantly, intrigued by his apparent nerves.

He's focused entirely on her when he takes a deep breath and says, "I'm leaving the crew after San Diego."

It's silent for a moment, and Rachel's, "Oh," comes out more like a squeak.

"I wanna work on my song-writing," Sam says, hopeful. "I'm going back to New York to give the whole music thing one more shot before I decide to spend the rest of my life playing with lightbulbs."

Still processing, Rachel manages to reach over and slap his arm. "You do more than play with lightbulbs."

Sam grins. "They've found my replacement already."

"How can they replace you?"

He tips his head forward, like it's obvious. "Well, _somebody's_ gotta – "

"No, not…not like that," Rachel shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself. Sam's her only real friend on the tour, the only roommate she'd been able to stand in eight months, and he's heading home to give it all one last go and she's just having trouble smiling.

"I'm really…that's great. I'm happy for you," she says genuinely, lips quirked. "I mean, if you cut your goldilocks hair and shave that gerbil on your face, you'll do really well."

Sam grasps his chin, eyes wide. "_Gerbil_?"

It's enough to make Rachel smile fully.

Sam watches her, then leans forward and says, "You could do the same, you know."

Rachel sighs.

"No, seriously," Sam insists. "You could come back with me and start auditioning for things again. Do what you love and don't give up, right?"

"I didn't _give up_," Rachel pushes her fries towards Sam, though he ignores them. "It wasn't working. I got tired of it."

"And you've had a break now, so it's time to get back to it."

Rachel stares at him, unimpressed.

"We're still young," Sam says, then flexes his arms like that's supposed to convince her of something. "We've got loads of time for our big breaks."

"I like what I'm doing now," Rachel argues, though it's placid and unconvincing even to her own ears.

She does enjoy the atmosphere of a touring show, the actors and performances, the music, the excitement and satisfaction. It's watching from the sidelines, setting up the framework and then vanishing into the darkness with a clipboard and a headset that breaks her heart.

"And you're really good at it," Sam nods, distractedly dumping ketchup over his fries, "Like, you're the mastermind, Rachel. Way too good for this stuff."

Rachel flushes then, like she does every time Sam or Mike or Mercedes or her dads voice the same sentiment.

She pushes her glasses back up her nose and glances at Dorothy on the wall, and her voice is quiet and firm when she says, "I want to finish this tour."

Sam just smiles at her, nodding. "That's cool." He shoves a handful of fries into his mouth and leans back in his seat. "You got tons of time."

* * *

><p>They spend three hours on an aircraft carrier in the harbor, where Sam is delighted and fascinated, and Rachel entertains herself by taking pictures of him without his knowing to send to his parents and siblings. It's her idea to ride the flight simulator several times, and Sam buys her a straw hat on the Embarcadero when they leave.<p>

She convinces him to take a mini-cruise around the bay on a Hornblower, and she spends the whole time battling the wind to take blurry pictures of a sea lion that swims next to the boat. Sam drops his room key and a packet of gum into the ocean trying to assist.

The sun is setting when they get back to the hotel – a bright orange ball reflecting off the siding – and Rachel falls tiredly, happily onto her bed. She's deciding between Netflix with room service dessert and Skyping with her dads when there's a knock on her door, and she opens it to find Bruce Barrow, the eleven year old, blonde-haired sweetheart playing Michael Darling.

"Hey, Rachel," he greets, grinning lopsidedly, and his hands are jammed in his pajama pants pockets.

Rachel smiles warmly. "How's it going, Bruce?"

She knows he's sharing a room with the Lost Boys, so she prepares herself for something disastrous.

"Isaac keeps saying I kick him when we're sleeping, so we switched beds, but both Justins say I kick them too, so they told me to sleep in the bathtub last night, but I just slept in the arm chair instead."

Rachel lifts her eyebrows, smiling. "And how was that?"

Bruce seems not at all concerned with the situation. He shrugs and says, "It was cool. But I was thinking we could get a cot for tonight."

Rachel laughs. "You think that would work?"

"I mean, the chair's fine, but it kinda made me sore and I have to dance tomorrow, so…" Bruce bounces on his bare feet in the hallway.

"A good night's sleep is very important for a performer," Rachel nods wisely. "I'll see if I can get a cot sent up, Bruce."

He proclaims, "Thanks, Rachel," with a wide smile, before running back down the hallway, and Rachel puts her shoes back on to head to the front desk. She could call down, but she likes the walk, the smell of nice hotels, quiet elevators and sock-clad feet on the carpet.

Also, there's a vending machine with mini pretzels on the way back.

She leaves a detailed note for Sam and doesn't bother checking her appearance. Her hair hangs messily around her shoulders and she's still in the alpaca t-shirt she'd gotten in Kansas. She runs into both Justins – Brown and Donnithorne, polar opposites – on the elevator, and they thank her profusely when she tells them where she's going.

It's only because of a throwaway glance at the bar that Rachel sees Quinn, still in that black dress, leaning against the counter with a glass and an iPad. Rachel hesitates for just a second before heading in her direction, slipping into the open space at her side.

Quinn actually startles when she looks up from her iPad to see Rachel there, and Rachel smothers a laugh.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Quinn's wide-eyed, unprepared, but smiling. "No, I – that's okay," she fumbles. "What can – how can I help you, Rachel?"

Rachel's charmed that Quinn remembers her name. She eyes Quinn's drink and says, "Are you – I don't want to bother you if you're not working right now."

Quinn follows her gaze, then assures, "Just water. If I'm here, I'm working."

"Do you live here?" Rachel asks impulsively. "Sort of like…an Eloise situation?"

Quinn's purely entertained for a moment, and the sleeve of her blazer has dipped low enough that Rachel can make out two miniscule penguin tattoos on the inside of her wrist. She refrains from aww-ing at them and peels her eyes away from Quinn's pretty wrist.

"I actually live with my sister, but I do have a room upstairs because I'm on call twenty-four seven."

Rachel nods thoughtfully.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Quinn asks again, ducking to catch Rachel's gaze.

"We need a cot in one of the rooms. The Lost Boys are having a disagreement," Rachel says, and it makes Quinn laugh.

"I'll get that done right now," Quinn assures, messing around with her iPad.

Rachel settles onto a bar stool and orders a vodka tonic while Quinn's fingers glide over the screen, typing a message, pulling up various pages. She's not sure what possesses her to ask, "How old are you, Quinn?"

Quinn looks at her with surprise, because Rachel's used her name, _knows _her name, and Rachel interprets it as mild offense and backtracks quickly.

"Just – you seem very professional and authoritative, but so young," Rachel explains, ears reddening. "I apologize. That was a rude question."

She's swigging her vodka tonic when Quinn says, "Twenty-three," with much amusement.

"Twenty-eight," Rachel offers when she's swallowed.

It's an odd road to go down, exchanging ages, and Quinn's wondering how professional she needs to be and what sort of conversation is appropriate when Rachel says, "You must be quite adept at your job to have secured it at such a young age."

"I – yes, I'm – thank you," Quinn stammers.

Rachel smiles at her.

"I'm sure – you as well," Quinn says disjointedly, then clears her throat. "Touring with a Broadway company must be incredible."

Quinn's never been great at speaking to women, but Rachel doesn't seem to mind that her sentences are barely strung together.

Rachel tips her head curiously. "Have you read the Peter Pan stories?"

"I've read everything," Quinn blurts, and Rachel pushes up her glasses and listens intently.

"Not…literally," Quinn clarifies, "Obviously. But all of J. M. Barrie and – just – "

"Everything else," Rachel says with a laugh.

Quinn sips her water to cool down her face and muses, "There's always more to read."

Rachel props her chin in her hand and stares at Quinn, eyes bright behind her glasses. "How about the Broadway shows based on books? _Les Mis_? _Wicked_? _Phantom of the Opera_?"

Quinn's smiling as she nods, and she adds to Rachel's list, "_Ragtime, The Color Purple, A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder_."

Rachel's impressed, and she stares off over Quinn's shoulder trying to think of some more.

"I read _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ and _Matilda_ over and over growing up," Quinn says, smiling softly, "And then I saw the shows when my sister took me to London after graduating college."

"Incredible kids," Rachel recalls about _Matilda_, and Quinn agrees and says, "It's the same for _Peter Pan_. Brilliant, talented little kids."

Rachel snorts when she thinks of Bruce kicking Justin Brown and Justin Donnithorne and Isaac in their sleep, then being relegated to the arm chair.

Quinn looks wistful though, off in her own world, and Rachel sips her drink and thinks about how early she'll have to wake up in the morning.

Probably five, because the first show in a new location never goes off without a hitch.

"Rachel," Quinn says, and she looks apologetic with a hand on her iPad, "I'm needed at the front. It was – I enjoyed speaking with you."

Rachel smiles. "You're very sweet."

Quinn's face warms then, and she remembers her position and says, "Don't hesitate to let us know if there's anything we can do for you."

It's a rehearsed line, but Rachel agrees with, "Goodnight, Quinn," and Quinn looks pleased as she strides purposefully away.

* * *

><p>Quinn gets home a little after one in the morning, and she changes into a t-shirt and boy shorts – she's incapable of keeping pajamas on all night – and brushes her teeth and heads straight to her sister's room because she's barely seen Frannie the past couple days.<p>

She's creeping through the door, eyeing the blonde head that stands out in the dark when she hears a muffled, "Oh no."

Quinn grins and shuts the door behind her, hurries around Frannie's bed to get in the other side. She's pulling the covers up when Frannie rolls over to face her, exasperated and amused from what Quinn can see of her face.

"How was your day?" Quinn whispers, fidgeting to get comfortable.

Frannie's pursuing a Ph.D. at UCSD, fascinated with European history, barbarians and pirates, and she's constantly telling and texting Quinn entertaining tales, like she had when they were kids. Today's was about Black Sam, the English pirate who captured more than fifty ships before the age of twenty-eight.

Quinn likes to spin Frannie's stories into the ones she knows, _Treasure Island_ and _The Count of Monte Cristo_, _The Mysterious Island_ and _Peter Pan_, and Frannie always makes sure to tell them in the most creative ways, from the first time she'd donned an eye patch and tugged her saddened, six-year old sister to sit under the tree in the backyard.

"It was exhausting," Frannie murmurs, looking pointedly at Quinn.

Quinn cuddles up with her pillow and says nothing.

Frannie laughs quietly, and her eyes are the same green as their father's, but kinder, full of warmth and creativity, hazy with sleep. "How was yours, Luce?"

"Long," Quinn sighs, shifting again.

"You're such a fidget."

Quinn moves deliberately closer, clutching her pillow. She sighs contentedly when Frannie drags the mess of blonde hair off her face, and it makes her sister smile.

"Did you see Sheep today?" Quinn whispers, and Frannie rolls her eyes.

Owen Lamb is her sister's boyfriend, a small, dark-haired, biologist with sweet eyes and a lively laugh, and he takes Quinn's nicknames in stride and shares with her every detail of his Bactrian camel research. He'd let her name one of his subjects, so somewhere in the Nubra Valley is a two-humped camel called Bagel.

Frannie sounds like she's falling asleep when she says, "I did. He leaves for India tomorrow."

Quinn hums, staring at Frannie's closed eyes. "It'll be just you and me then."

"Oh, God," Frannie mutters.

"Will you come see _Peter Pan_ with me?"

Frannie opens one eye curiously. "Yeah, have you met the cast?"

"Some of them," Quinn shrugs vaguely and presses her face into her pillow, decides to sleep now. Frannie's smiling at her though, interested again.

"Did you meet a girl, Lucy?"

Quinn breathes evenly, in and out, and Frannie's silent laughter shakes the bed.

"Sweetie, come on," Frannie says.

Quinn mumbles, "No," into her pillow, and Frannie starts playing with her hair.

"I'll kick you out of my bed," Frannie whispers, and it's an empty threat, but Quinn still opens her eyes and holds her sister's gaze in the dark.

"Is the girl in _Peter Pan_?" Frannie asks gently.

Quinn debates further denial, but her sister is always able to pry things out of her anyway, so she shakes her head and murmurs, "She's part of the crew."

Frannie smiles. "Is she cute?"

Quinn's cheeks are warm when she rolls over to face the other way, hugging her pillow.

"Oh no, Luce, wait," Frannie says, laughing. She lightly scratches Quinn's back, then leans up and kisses the side of her head. "I'm sorry."

Quinn doesn't respond, mostly because she's falling asleep and Frannie's still playing with her hair. She knows she'll wake up clinging to her sister because that's what happens when she shares a bed with anybody.

After a few minutes of silence, she offers, "Her name's Rachel."

Frannie repeats it quietly, and Quinn mumbles, "And she is cute."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Goodness gracious guys, glad you're liking this!_

**Straight on 'til Morning**

**Chapter 2**

She's standing outside the San Diego Civic Theater just after six the next evening, in gray pants and a dark coat, a scarf littered with small green foxes. Jesse and Tina – who runs the restaurant at the Pacific Palomar and won Quinn's friendship with chocolate mousse a year ago – will be meeting her inside, so Quinn's perched on a bench, reading the label on her water bottle while she waits for her sister.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and she startles and fishes it out, hoping that a disaster has not befallen the hotel in the half hour she's been gone. What she sees instead, "Shelby Corcoran," makes her heart thump hollowly in her chest.

May is approaching quickly, so she knows exactly what the call is for, what Shelby's going to ask, and she ignores it because she's not in the state of mind to deal with it at the moment. It leaves her breathing shakily, so distracted that she jumps at Frannie's, "Hey, kiddo," and drops her water bottle on the ground.

"Whoa, settle down," Frannie says, laughing.

Quinn retrieves it quickly and straightens up to find her sister watching her, eyebrows raised. She flashes Frannie a smile and says, "Ready to go in?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," Quinn chirps, holding out her arm.

She can tell Frannie doesn't believe her, but she loops her elbow around Quinn's anyway, gives her an enthusiastic little squeeze and says, "Are you ready for this? Lots and lots of pirates. I'm excited."

Quinn laughs, "Me too."

Frannie tells her all about seeing Owen off at the airport, how his suitcase had been overweight so he'd left an armful of t-shirts and two pairs of shoes with Frannie to avoid paying the fee, and how he said he'd call Quinn as soon as he'd seen Bagel.

Jesse and Tina saunter into the theater ten minutes before the show is supposed to start, arguing about where they've parked and if Tina's car will be towed away or ticketed, and if Jesse looks overdressed or simply outstanding.

He leans awkwardly over Tina and Frannie to see Quinn's face, and loudly asks, "Have you seen Rachel yet?"

"Rachel?" Tina questions.

Jesse sagely informs her, "Quinn's crush."

He's still draped over Tina's lap, and Quinn bites out, "Shut the hell up," reaching for his face. Frannie shushes her, laughing, and holds her hand. Jesse fills Tina in – in a civilized manner that won't set Quinn off – and Quinn goes back to reading her Playbill, cover to cover.

She finds Rachel's name under "Production Supervisor," and discreetly shows her sister, who smiles in a way that makes Quinn smile and shrink down in her seat.

The show is seamless and brilliant, full of spirit and energy and nostalgia, and it's during the intermission that Jesse gets water for Tina, then leans over their seats and says, "I'm in love with the woman who plays Peter Pan."

If there was a flaw in execution, bumbled lines or forgotten steps or crumbling sets, Quinn hadn't seen it, and she smiles because she knows what it's like keeping mishaps and calamities behind curtains and closed doors. Rachel is damn good at her job.

….

Rachel goes out to celebrate with her "21 and over" cast and crew after the first show, and everybody's in good spirits because Wendy's food poisoning had abated ten minutes before curtain, the lighting miscommunication had been solved by Sam before the second act, and the backstage collision between two Lost Boys had resulted only in minor headaches.

She goes again on the next night, feeling particularly proud of herself and her people, and she fumbles with her key card with a laughing Sam hanging on her side and hears, "Rachel!" from down the hall.

It's Sara Eddy, the twenty-year old who plays Tiger Lily, and Rachel grins and waves as she approaches. Sam slips into their room with a slurred, "Good mornin' darlin'," and the door shuts quietly behind him.

"Sorry to bother you, Rachel," Sara says, and she looks anxious in her pajamas.

Rachel scoffs, waving her hand around. "Not – not a problem, Tiger Lily."

Sara seems hesitant, searching her face for sobriety, so Rachel nods and prods, "What is it?"

"Just – some of my things are missing from my room. A watch and a necklace. I didn't know if I should tell the hotel or call the police, or maybe wait for the morning– "

Rachel holds up her hand and confidently drawls, "I'll handle it, Tiger Lily."

"You will?"

Rachel's a little offended that Sara seems so skeptical, but she nods and assures, "Don't worry, Tiger Lily," as she's walking back to the elevator. It takes her a moment to realize she's going in the wrong direction, and she passes Sara again with a glassy smile.

She absently gets on an elevator that already contains a young couple heading up, and she gets off with them on the twenty-third floor – the penultimate floor – with the intention of boarding one of the other five elevators to get back down to the ground. She doesn't push the button though, because honestly, she's forgotten how elevators work, and the sight of an organic vending machine lures her further up the hallway.

She's standing in an alcove with two vending machines and an ice maker, in a t-shirt that says, "MY WARRIOR NAME IS BEYONCE PAD THAI," fishing for change in the back pocket of her black jeans, when she hears movement in the hallway.

When she turns, Quinn's leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed, curiosity and amusement painted on her face. She's in sleep clothes, a Yale sweatshirt and flannel shorts, and her hair's wet and dripping on her shoulders, and Rachel lights up.

She puts one hand on the glass of the organic vending machine and absurdly exclaims, "Why isn't this one on my floor!?"

"The vending machines vary between floors," Quinn says, smiling. "We like to provide options for our guests."

Rachel nods. She puts her other hand on the glass and looks longingly inside at the chocolate soy pudding. There was no change in her pockets, and Sam had taken her bag inside their room.

"Do you need some quarters?" Quinn wonders, searching her own pockets.

Rachel backs quickly away from the machine and says, "Oh, no – no thank you. I think I was supposed to be going somewhere else anyway."

"You think?" Quinn enters the alcove to stand in front of the vending machine, and she cringes at what Rachel assumes is the smell of the rum that Noodler the pirate had accidentally flung over half the cast and crew.

It's dried into Rachel's t-shirt now, mingling with the gin and spearmint gum on her breath. She sways a bit, and Quinn watches, concerned, and steadies her briefly with a warm hand on the small of her back.

"Tiger Lily's missing some things from her room," Rachel explains after Quinn feeds two dollars to the machine.

Quinn glances at her, frowning, and says, "Oh, no."

"A watch and a necklace," Rachel repeats, proud of herself for remembering.

It's distressing information for Quinn, and she drops two more quarters into the machine with a furrowed brow and then stands back, gestures at the glass and offers, "Pick what you like, Rachel."

She smiles at Rachel's look of confusion, her lopsided glasses and disbelief.

"Really. It's on me."

Rachel's immobile for another moment, gaze locked with Quinn's, but then she shuffles forward and selects the chocolate pudding, clumsily pulls it out of the plastic flap at the bottom when it drops.

"Thank you," she says quietly while Quinn's getting her own snack. "That's really sweet."

Quinn's face heats up, from her neck to her ears, and she manages, "You're welcome," while she's crouched to pick up her mini cookies.

Rachel holds her pudding close to her chest and checks her phone, and it takes her a while to process a text from Sara from four minutes ago that says, "It was the Lost Boys! The Justins were playing a prank. Sorry, Rach."

When she looks up from her phone, Quinn's watching her intently.

"I – Tiger Lily found her things. The Lost Boys had them."

Quinn's obviously relieved, because her shoulders relax and she narrows her eyes playfully and says, "The Lost Boys make a lot of trouble for you, huh?"

"They're juvenile delinquents, Quinn," Rachel remarks, and it's said with such passion and earnestness that Quinn laughs loudly, and then quiets herself because there are guest rooms around.

Rachel's own smile widens.

"Was this all a ploy for you to have an excuse to come and find me?" Quinn ventures, eyebrow lifted.

She knows it's unprofessional, but she's in boxers and socks with a bag of cookies in her arms, in an ice machine alcove in the middle of the night with an out-of-her-mind tipsy Rachel Berry, so now's the time to say things that wouldn't otherwise be said.

Rachel scoffs twice, wordlessly, and then, "I didn't know this was your floor. And I was – I wanted to go _down_. The elevator – it just brought me here by itself."

Quinn laughs again, quietly this time. She loops an arm through Rachel's to steady her – very aware of Rachel's gaze on the side of her face – and leads her out into the hallway, over to the elevators.

"I'm sorry I…bothered you…when you weren't working," Rachel says stiltedly on the quiet ride down to her floor.

Quinn's been reading the elevator warnings, and then the back of her little package of cookies because she'd memorized the warnings long ago.

She shakes her head quickly. "If I'm here, I'm working. You didn't bother me."

Rachel sighs then, and her lips are turned down and she looks so exhausted and sad that Quinn squeezes her arm and says, "I saw your show, Rachel. It was fantastic."

Rachel looks at her, searching her face. She says, "You saw it?" in a faint voice, like it's hard to believe, and Quinn nods.

"I loved it. Everyone I was with loved it," Quinn tells her honestly. "You should be proud."

It puts a small, contented smile on Rachel's face, and Quinn leads her down the hallway, clumsily fishes the key card out of Rachel's back pocket, and opens the door to her room. She compliments her shirt and tells her to drink a lot of water, and she's about to say goodnight when Rachel abruptly pulls her into a hug.

Quinn is overwhelmed with the smell of rum, and Rachel's pudding is pressed between them, but it's warm and midnight and Rachel's hair is soft against her cheek.

"Thank you, Quinn," Rachel says sweetly, stepping into her room.

Quinn realizes she's dropped her cookies, flustered, and she barely gets out, "Goodnight," before the door shuts.

….

She spends the next morning supervising the set-up of a baseball scouting seminar in their largest conference room, which ends with a jolly, burly man in a Padres hat teaching her how to swing a bat, and she heads to the Pacific Palomar restaurant for lunch before she can break anything. She convinces Tina to come out and sit with her, and she's halfway through her pile of hash browns, listening to Tina describe a particularly obnoxious patron from last night, when she sees Rachel's blonde friend sit down at a nearby table.

She must be watching a little too closely because Tina follows her gaze and says, "Who's that?"

Quinn quickly focuses back on her food, shrugging. "I don't actually know."

Tina narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"It's – I really don't know who he is," Quinn defends, laughing at her friend's expression.

Tina leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, "Why are we watching him?"

"We're not," Quinn whispers loudly. She pokes at her food and says in a normal voice, "He's always with Rachel. I think they're rooming together."

Tina glances over at him again, sizing him up this time. He's in a tank top and a ball cap, and his sneakers are neon green, and Tina looks doubtful when she says, "Boyfriend?"

"Would it be weird to room with a guy who isn't your boyfriend?"

Tina tips her head thoughtfully, and maybe it's because Quinn looks so hopeful that she says, "I don't think so."

The guy's got a club sandwich now, and he's trying to open his mouth wide enough to fit the whole thing in.

"He looks like a hobo, Quinn," Tina remarks.

Quinn's inclined to agree, but she smiles down at her food and says, "That has nothing to do with it."

"I'm just saying," Tina's smirking, and she reaches over to pat Quinn's free hand, "I think you've got a shot, girl."

Quinn mumbles, "Thanks," refusing to look up, because she's incapable of talking to or about girls she's attracted to without eventually degenerating into a bashful mess. Tina's used to it – the dichotomy of Quinn's graceful, driven work self and her endearingly eccentric personal self – so she just smiles and steals a strawberry off her plate.

Quinn only looks up when Jesse slides awkwardly into the chair next to her, and he's immediately huddled forward over the table, addressing Tina and Quinn.

"I finally met her," he says, grinning, and the top button of his vest has come undone. "Taylor Bright – the woman who plays Peter Pan – she came down with one of her friends and asked me to call them a cab."

Quinn blinks at him, offers an indulgent, "Congratulations."

He's unaffected, biting into one of Quinn's strawberries when he says, "She touched my arm to thank me. I'm sure I charmed her."

"What kind of touch?" Tina asks, overpowering Quinn's snort.

Jesse demonstrates on Quinn by brushing her shoulder lightly, and she rolls her eyes and sits patiently while Tina observes.

"It's – I mean, there was a smile that went with it that made it significant," Jesse defends.

Tina's shrewdly observing him, ready to offer advice, but Jesse's attention is captured by Rachel's friend, who has a pickle in one hand and the rest of his sandwich in the other. Jesse leans into Quinn and says, "Did you see blondie over there?"

Quinn hums.

"His name's Sam," Jesse offers. "We had a conversation about cars."

Quinn straightens up and looks at him, and his smile is more pompous now that he's caught her interest. He leans lazily back in his chair and waits.

"Did you learn anything else?" Quinn asks.

Jesse frowns at her. "How unprofessional do you think I am?"

"_Very_."

His roguish smile is back immediately, and he says, "Sam has a '68 Mustang fastback in New York that he never gets to drive. He's from Ohio and he's always wanted a supercar, which is why he came up to me when I was getting out of somebody's Bugatti."

Quinn's interest is slipping, and she slumps a bit in her seat.

Jesse nudges her side, and he's only looking at her when he says, "His _old_ _friend_, Rachel, has a '63 Austin Mini Cooper that's been in her family since it was new."

It takes Quinn a moment, but she can't help the smile that spreads slowly across her face. Who'd call a girlfriend an old friend? Her gaze is fixed on the wall over Tina's shoulder because she can feel their eyes on her, affectionate and expectant – Jesse's ready to be praised – and she says, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Quinn Fabray," Tina laughs.

Quinn takes Jesse's hand and squeezes it, and resigns herself to the task of helping him capture the heart of Taylor Bright.

…

It's a little saddening, actually, once she realizes that she can't really ask Rachel on a date without representing the hotel in an unprofessional manner, at least at this stage in their "relationship." She'll have to build up a camaraderie that is completely removed from work, and the thought of it is daunting.

Also thrilling, but mostly frighteningly daunting.

Quinn's sitting on a gray couch in the lobby with her sister – who'd shown up after dinner with pie to share, straightened Quinn's sunny yellow bow-tie, and dragged her out from behind the front desk – and a binder of upcoming events, because work is all that can keep her mind off of the second phone call she'd received from Shelby Corcoran.

Frannie's telling her about the camp Owen's staying at in India, what he's been eating, and how he woke up at four in the morning just to call her before she had dinner.

"You guys are so cute," Quinn remarks, pie in one hand, pen in the other.

Frannie's smile is infectious, but she falls quiet so that Quinn can work.

It's only a few minutes later that she whispers, "Who's that?" and Quinn looks up to see Rachel approaching, wearing a cheerful smile and a black polo with "Production Supervisor" on the pocket. Quinn quickly sits up straight, checks that her hair is tidy and tied back, and Frannie fixes her collar and bow-tie again, smiling with delight because she can guess who this person is.

"Good evening!" Rachel greets when she reaches them.

Quinn answers with a welcoming smile. "Hi, Rachel," she says, and she's in the middle of her lobby, so she follows it up with, "What can I do for you?"

She ignores the amused look on her sister's face, her knowing expression.

Rachel glances questioningly between them, and her mouth is open to respond when Frannie holds out her hand and says, "Hey there, Rachel. I'm Frannie. Quinn's sister."

Quinn's expecting surprise, maybe some awkwardness because of her drunken excursion through the halls last night, but Rachel doesn't miss a beat as she shakes Frannie's hand and warmly assures, "It's nice to meet you."

"Your show's fantastic," Frannie remarks, and Rachel smiles proudly.

"Thank you!"

"How's your night, Rachel?" Quinn interrupts before her sister can get carried away.

Frannie gives her a quick look that says, "You can't shut me up," then sits back and watches Rachel with interest.

"I just got back from the show," Rachel says distractedly, digging in her back pocket. She comes up with two dollar bills, flattens them, and hands them to Quinn. "For last night."

Frannie looks thoroughly entertained.

"Oh, that's not – you don't have to – " Quinn shakes her head at her nonsense stammering and turns to Frannie, who's smiling expectantly. "It's for – I got Rachel something from the vending machine last night."

Frannie hums, nodding.

Rachel takes Quinn's free hand and presses the money into her palm, then gives it a squeeze. "Thanks again," she says, pushing up her glasses, and then, charmingly, "I like your bow-ties."

Quinn's struck silent, and Rachel knows it, because she's nearly laughing as she tells Frannie that it was nice to meet her and bids them goodnight. When she's gone, Quinn takes her time putting the money away to avoid her sister's gaze.

"How old is she?" Frannie eventually asks, ducking to catch Quinn's eye.

After some hesitation, because she knows exactly what reaction it will illicit, Quinn mumbles, "Twenty-eight."

"Quinn!" Frannie's eyebrows shoot up, intrigued and concerned.

"It's only a five year difference."

Frannie's eyes are wide when she says, "She's a year older than _I am_, Luce."

Quinn scoffs and scowls, pulling her binder back onto her lap. "What does that matter?"

She doesn't feel that it's a significant gap at all. They're both solidly in their twenties with dynamic careers – though most of Quinn's career has been spent at Yale, working under a ridiculous white-haired hotel industry tycoon named Vivaldo, who got her this job – and she's incapable of controlling her heart.

Watching her carefully, Frannie softens. "It doesn't, at all. I'm just surprised."

"Why?" Quinn snaps.

"You've never dated anybody older than you," Frannie's tone is mollifying. "Or younger, actually. That I know of."

Quinn's lips turn up as she repeats, "That you know of."

Frannie looses an exaggerated gasp and leans in closer, taking Quinn's hand. "Are there any that you haven't told me about?"

Quinn rolls her eyes, but she really does tell Frannie about all of them, whether they last a night or a year. Her sister pulls out the ice cream and tolerates Quinn's fidgeting, cover-stealing, cuddling bedtime habits when things go bad, and tells her to "have fun and take lots of pictures" when things go well.

"I really do like her," Quinn says quietly.

Frannie smiles. "I know, sweetie."

It's quiet for a moment, but then Frannie continues, "She's cute. And very small. I like her glasses." She sounds like she's talking to herself, but her smile is growing because Quinn is slipping lower on the gray couch, smiling down at her binder and burning up.

Honestly, sweet Lucy has no game. Frannie's always known it.

"And she loves your suave little bow-ties," Frannie adds, tugging Quinn's hand so that her sister will look at her. When she does, Frannie says more seriously, "Just be careful, Luce."

They're in the middle of the lobby, in their own mess of upcoming event schedules and leftover pie and coffee and an extra pair of Frannie's shoes, detached from the world for just a moment, exactly as it had been growing up, and Frannie's still telling her to be careful.

Quinn's still listening, but the trouble comes in the execution.

…..

"I figure I'll sell a few more songs, solidify myself as a songwriter," Sam reasons, "and then pop up out of nowhere with a hit single that I'm singing myself."

Rachel laughs, face tipped up into the sun. "Like Neil Diamond."

They're at the hotel's large outdoor pool, which is the length of a football field but shaped like an amoeba, a river, and they've been floating around and enjoying the California afternoon for a good hour. Half that time was spent racing – freestyle from end to end and underwater to retrieve coins – so Rachel's leaning against the pool wall, recovering, while Sam does handstands in head high water.

He pops up right in front of her and pants, "When are you going to ask that girl out?"

Rachel blinks at him, abruptly alarmed by his chlorine-reddened eyes.

"Quinn," he clarifies, mistaking her surprise for confusion. He shakes out his hair and continues, "The blonde one. I saw her eating French toast yesterday."

Rachel hums thoughtfully, then shrugs.

"You don't know?"

She's dipping lower in the water, so that only her head is exposed, when she says, "I'd prefer to just let it play out. I'm curious to see if anything will happen without a deliberate move on my part."

It sounds so well-rehearsed and ridiculously thought out that she grimaces at herself.

"Seriously?" Sam's stock still in the water, frowning at her plan.

"Just – she's young, and professional. And pretty peculiar, actually," Rachel's lips quirk. "And she's so easy to read. I don't want to…take advantage of that."

"Dude, she's an adult."

"I'm aware, thanks, Evans."

Sam's shoulders and the bridge of his nose are turning violently red, so when Rachel puts both her hands on top of his head, he easily lets her dunk him. She's climbing out of the pool when he comes back up, and she turns around to find that he's politely averted his eyes.

"Surf and turf?" she suggests, drying off with a fluffy hotel towel.

Sam grins and throws her a thumbs-up. He points to the other end of the pool, where Justin Brown and Isaac are playing with goggles and a blow-up whale, and says, "I'll be over there. Grab some cash from my wallet. I'll pay."

Rachel fishes his wallet out from underneath his t-shirt and towel, then slips cotton shorts and a loose tank top that says, "YEEZUS TAUGHT ME," over her bikini. She's hurrying out the massive glass doors of the hotel's back entrance – because her wet hair will dry and curl and frizz into an unmanageable mess if she takes too long – when she spies Quinn striding purposefully up from the marina.

Quinn must see her at the same time, because she stutter steps, then walks even faster than before.

"Nothing's wrong this time," Rachel calls, smiling, as soon as Quinn is close enough, "I'm just picking up take-out."

"That's your story?" Quinn's unable to suppress a laugh when she can read Rachel's tank top.

She'd been speaking with a few of the boat owners, and she's flushed from the sun despite her short sleeves and rolled-up pants, and strands of blonde hair are sticking to her forehead. It's Rachel's sweet, half-smile that makes her ask, "Would you like company?"

Rachel's eyes widen, and she manages to hold off for a beat or two before, "Absolutely!"

Quinn settles her hands in her pockets, pleased, and falls into step with Rachel as they head for the Embarcadero. She follows Rachel's lead – though there's no way Rachel knows her way around already – and asks, "How do you like the pool?"

"It's great. My friend, Sam, says it's the best we've been to, but there was one in Florida that had an alligator in it, so I'm not sure that I agree."

Quinn chuckles, then observes, "You're not wearing your glasses."

"Swimming pools and glasses don't mix well," Rachel says with a wry smile.

"But you can see?"

Rachel slows down and squints exaggeratedly at Quinn. "You're a little blurry. Just don't let me step into the harbor."

Quinn laughs again – either easily entertained or flirtatious – and Rachel's so self-satisfied that she's still smiling when they reach Seaport Village. It's a complex of dining and shopping right on the water, and Rachel doesn't know the layout yet, so she turns to Quinn and says, "Seafood?"

She's already made the executive decision to take the "turf" out of "surf and turf."

There's a complacent smile on Quinn's face, hands still in her pockets, and she surveys their options and leads Rachel to Marion's Fish Market, a beachy, shack-style seafood place with outdoor seating. She walks Rachel up to the counter and points out what's good, and Rachel informs her that she's a lapsed vegan while on tour, so fish is a fine option, then orders Mahi skewers and fish tacos, rice, and a bucket of clam strips and popcorn shrimp.

Hopefully it's enough to feed Sam.

Quinn looks impressed, so Rachel's compelled to tell her, "It's not all for – Sam's appetite is insatiable."

Quinn just hums while Rachel pays, and she reads everything written on the chalkboard menu and the back of a Seaport Village pamphlet, and then orders a crab cake sandwich and fries for herself. Rachel's looking at her curiously as they sit down at a plastic table overlooking the water to wait, and Quinn glances down to make sure all her buttons are done up and there are no insects on her.

"No, it's – you're always reading," Rachel says with a laugh. "Even on the walk here, you were reading all the signs. At the vending machines, in the elevator."

Quinn's smile is apprehensive.

"Not in a negative way," Rachel clarifies quickly. "It's cute."

"Yeah, it's – it's a compulsion," Quinn admits, and her face is even more flushed now, her eyes bright in the sun. How many times has Rachel called her cute now?

"My sister says I've always done it."

She props her chin in one hand and leaves the other arm upturned on the table, angled just enough that Rachel can make out another tattoo – "LUKE 2:40" in typewriter font on the inside of her upper arm. With the miniscule penguins on Quinn's wrist, that's two so far.

Rachel can feel her hair thickening, growing, curling, so she's braiding it into a long plait over her shoulder when Quinn says, "Tell me something about yourself, Rachel."

"I have asthma," Rachel says immediately, then laughs at Quinn's expression. "Just – I think I might've embarrassed you a minute ago, so I'm offering up a weakness. I have asthma."

Quinn's smile spreads slowly, still staring.

"It's fairly mild. Sometimes I have problems when I'm sleeping, but I carry an inhaler and haven't had a real attack in years," Rachel describes. "Years of singing lessons and performing have taught me to regulate my breathing properly."

Quinn doesn't know what to do with so much new information. She sits with her mouth open for a moment before deciding on, "You perform?"

Rachel's grin recedes back into that half-smile. "I've been auditioning for shows in New York since I was eighteen."

"That's amazing."

"It obviously hasn't gotten me very far," Rachel shrugs, plucking at her tank top where her bikini has soaked through. "I've been working on various crews for ten years."

Quinn can tell by Rachel's pensive expression that they've turned down a melancholic path.

"That's still – you obviously belong on the stage," Quinn blurts, despite the fact she's never seen this woman on a stage in her life. Rachel's a character – unfulfilled but passionate and hard-working, and Quinn's already picturing her as the lead in a show, maybe _Peter Pan_, if Jesse whisks Taylor Bright away and the producers want a small, dark-haired Jewish Peter replacement.

"You're still auditioning, right? When you get back to the city?"

Rachel smiles ruefully. "Sam wants me to."

Quinn agrees with Sam, the blonde friend who likes cars, pools, and club sandwiches. She decides that they'll get along just fine.

She drags her sweaty hair out of her eyes and says, "I don't think you should give up."

Rachel rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "You've never heard me sing. Or seen me perform," she laughs shortly, "Or work at all. You don't even know me, Quinn."

It stings a little, even if it wasn't meant to, and Quinn's face must fall a bit, disappointed, because Rachel's eyes widen and she sits forward and says, "I meant…_professionally_. I could be a terrible performer for all you know."

Quinn's astute gaze drifts back to her.

"I'm sorry I said that," Rachel implores, "Really."

"I can't imagine you'd be a terrible performer," Quinn muses quietly.

Rachel smiles. She's really not. She's sure of that, at the very least.

"And I'm enjoying getting to know you," Quinn adds, bashful now, overheating in her short sleeve button down. "I could – maybe I could show you around the city, if you have free time. And I'd like to hear about the shows you've worked on."

Rachel leans forward, grinning, and says, "I've worked on five shows, and three are books, so we have a lot to talk about."


	3. Chapter 3

**Straight on 'til Morning**

**Chapter 3**

Quinn's falling asleep on the soft little couch in the living room, absently watching a documentary about penguins when Frannie loudly blunders through the door, complaining about the weight of the bags of take-out and books she's carrying and swearing when half of it crashes to the floor in the entryway.

"Need help?" Quinn calls, too comfortably sunken into the sofa to look over the back of it.

Frannie doesn't reply, just loudly lugs the food up onto the breakfast bar and ruffles Quinn's hair on her way through the living room. She sits on the coffee table, pointedly watching her sister and blocking her view.

Quinn glances down at herself – she's still in her dress shirt from work, with fraying shorts and tall, stripy socks, just a bit slovenly – and lifts an eyebrow. "What is it?"

Frannie remains quiet, appraising her.

"Did you get me mandarin chicken?" Quinn smiles, "Because I changed my mind and I'd like egg rolls now, please."

"Luce, is there something you want to tell me?"

Quinn thinks _yes_, she's decided on egg rolls over mandarin chicken, but Frannie's holding her gaze, smiling a bit sadly, so Quinn pulls herself out of the depths of the cushions and frowns, "What?"

"Shelby sent me an email," Frannie says gently, muting the television.

Quinn just blinks at her for a moment, but realization dawns and she lets her head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling fan. Frannie's warm hand is on her knee when she continues, "She says she's been calling you. Beth's eighth birthday is coming up."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Quinn mutters, blinking rapidly.

"She's having a party and she'd like for you to come."

It's the same thing every year. Quinn swallows thickly.

"Hey," Frannie's voice is firm, kind, and she waits for Quinn to look at her, and then, "Why haven't you answered her calls?"

Quinn shrugs despondently. She sounds rough when she says, "I don't know what to tell her."

Frannie's quiet for a moment. "You haven't seen Beth in three years."

It's heart-wrenching, a fact that's always there, weighing on Quinn's mind, and she tips forward and drops her head into her hands. She can already feel tears dripping from her eyes. Frannie's next to her immediately, trying to pull her hands away.

"Do you want to see her?" Frannie wonders softly.

Quinn's so conflicted that all she can manage is a small, muffled, "Yeah."

"Then you should go."

She _can't_ go, though, really, because her eight-year-old daughter has no idea who Quinn is. She sees her as a doting family friend who brings countless presents and always seems a bit more teary than everybody else, if she even recognizes Quinn's face.

Quinn's explained this before – Frannie knows – so when Quinn starts crying noiselessly into her hands, Frannie just gathers her up and holds her there, kisses the side of her blonde head and assures that whatever she decides is alright.

After a minute – when Quinn's dropped her hands to press her face into her sister's shoulder – Frannie says, "Sweetie, Shelby's thinking about telling Beth that she's adopted. She's old enough to understand now, and Shelby wants to speak with you about it."

Quinn pulls back immediately to search Frannie's face. Her own is flushed, her eyes reddened. "Really?"

"You should call her," Frannie says, dragging her thumbs over Quinn's cheeks.

"I miss her so much."

"I know you do. She's your daughter."

"No, but – " Quinn coughs, rubs at her eyes, "Even when I see her, I miss her."

It's like keeping a secret – there's one person in the world she loves with her whole heart, and that person can never know. Until some undetermined date, which is rapidly approaching, apparently.

"Things will get better once she knows," Frannie assures.

Quinn's gaze is hopeful, completely vulnerable and trusting, and Frannie could say anything in the world right now and have her sister believe her, but she goes with, "I think this is a good idea, Luce. You should call Shelby."

The penguins are sliding mutedly around the ice now, catapulting into the sea, and Quinn nods absently and rubs at her face. She sits up straight and breathes, apologetically touches her sister's now tear-stained, probably snot-stained, fitted black blazer.

Frannie smiles at the action and says, "I did get you mandarin chicken, but we can switch and you can have my egg rolls."

It's not until about 8 hours later – when Quinn's kicked all of Frannie's blankets to the foot of the bed, and she's hugging her sleeping sister's arm – that the panic hits. She considers all of the possible reactions, and definitely some impossible, horrible ones, that Beth could have upon learning that Quinn is her biological mother, and that she gave her up as a baby and was in her life for five years as a "friend" before disappearing for the last three.

Quinn fidgets for a good half hour, pressed into Frannie's side while she rubs at her forehead, rolls over, shuts her eyes tightly and prays.

Finally, the limp arm Quinn's hugging moves, and Frannie mumbles, "_Quinn_," into the darkness.

Quinn swallows and stills. "Sorry," she says, but her sister's already rolling over to face her.

"Where are my covers?"

"I think I got hot."

"_I_ didn't," Frannie says with a sleepy laugh, and Quinn reaches down to the foot of the bed to pull up the bunched sheet and quilt. She sees that it's three in the morning, pitch black, and she drops back onto her pillow with a sigh.

Frannie shifts then, and her voice is rough when she requests, "Either stop fidgeting or tell me, Lucy."

Quinn doesn't hesitate. She squeezes the arm she's still hugging and murmurs, "Okay, what if she doesn't – what if she resents me for giving her up? Or for…lying for eight years."

"You haven't been lying."

"Then for not telling her who I am sooner," Quinn clarifies.

Frannie's eyes are closed, but she shakes her head against her pillow. "That wasn't your decision."

"But I don't want her to hate me," Quinn breathes, shifting her legs around again. She remembers that she's not supposed to be fidgeting, so she rolls into Frannie's side instead, clings to her arm and forces herself to be still.

Frannie smiles and Quinn sees a flash of white teeth.

"Lucy, you gave that sweet little girl up so that she could have a real shot at life, opportunities that you couldn't give her," Frannie grips Quinn's wrist gently, rubs right where she knows the penguins are.

"Everything you did, going along with what Shelby wanted for eight years, it was all for her, and she'll realize that."

Quinn mumbles, "You don't know that," into Frannie's shoulder.

"Actually, I do," Frannie scoffs. "I'm the big sister."

Quinn conceals a smile, remembering when Frannie had first said that, when she was nine and her sister was twelve, and she'd crawled into Frannie's bed with a book and a flashlight and cried because a girl in her class had smashed her Styrofoam castle art project. She worried that she'd never have any friends, and Frannie assured her that she would, and then told her to stop fidgeting and go to sleep.

She met Jesse a week later, a flamboyant new fourth grader who had a head of brown curls and the tendency to sing songs he made up on the spot, and Quinn befriended him by picking up his broken glasses at recess and then pushing him on the swing.

"Now hold still and go to sleep you hyperactive maniac," Frannie instructs, closing her eyes again.

Quinn lifts up and blindly kisses her cheek, says, "Okay," with a smile, because it's three in the morning and Frannie's eased her fears for now.

* * *

><p>She calls during her lunch break the next day, and Shelby answers immediately, warmly, despite the fact that Quinn's been ignoring her calls. It probably has something to do with Frannie's return e-mail because Shelby says, "Don't worry, Quinn. I understand," like the situation's been explained to her.<p>

"I don't – I'm not yet sure how I feel about Beth knowing that I'm her – her biological mother," Quinn chooses her words carefully, pacing around her hotel room.

"Because you don't know how she'll react? I have the same fears, Quinn."

They could never possibly be the same, Quinn knows, but Shelby's trying.

"I'd just like some time to think about it," Quinn says, "I know you don't need my permission or anything – "

"I'm not going to do anything you're uncomfortable with," Shelby interrupts firmly. She _sounds_ like a mother, kindly providing guidance to a twenty-three year old with Spongebob bellowing in the background. "I want us to be on the same page."

Quinn laughs shallowly and admits, "I'm not sure what page I'm on."

"Do you think you'll be able to make it out for her birthday?"

It's in four weeks, and Quinn's silently mulling it over when Shelby assures, "You've got time to think about it. Don't worry. Just – she's been asking about you."

Quinn inhales sharply. "She has?"

"She reads the books you send," Shelby says, and Quinn can hear the smile in her voice, "Even if she doesn't really understand them all. She knows _Quinn_ is the one who sends them, so she asks me if you've read them and what the next one will be."

Quinn's throat constricts as she's stopped in the empty space between the closet and the bathroom. Her voice sounds foreign when she says, "What do you tell her?"

"I tell her that soon she'll be able to ask you herself," Shelby pauses, "Maybe we could reconsider phone calls, like we used to."

Quinn leans against the wall, smiling. "That's – yeah – that sounds nice. I definitely have a lot to think about."

"Call me anytime, Quinn, okay?"

Quinn agrees, tells Shelby to give Beth a hug and a kiss for her, and hangs up feeling hopeful. Her daughter's reading and asking questions, and she's curious and smart and so beautiful, and Quinn's heart swells with pride from three thousand miles away.

* * *

><p>After a particularly successful show, when Rachel wasn't called upon at all and the encore seemed to never end, she waves her crewmates away outside of the theater and heads back to the hotel. They're stumbling over each other recalling the best parts of the show –Wendy had introduced a successful maneuver during a flying sequence and Justin Donnithorne improvised a dance that the crowd loved – and Rachel leaves because it's heart-rending.<p>

She orders a slice of cheesecake from the hotel restaurant and then impulsively hits the button for the twenty-third floor in the elevator. It does occur to her that Quinn's probably not even in her room, but she still wanders aimlessly until she comes upon one at the end of the hall with "HOTEL MANAGER" under the room number.

She's still in her black polo, but she runs a hand through her hair and pushes her glasses up her nose before knocking on the door. It swings open a moment later and Quinn's smiling on the other side – having checked the peephole – in sweatpants and a V-neck.

Rachel holds up her cheesecake and says, "Wanna share?"

"Chocolate?"

"Vegan strawberry with a praline topping."

Quinn laughs, genuinely surprised. "Oh, yeah, sure. Absolutely."

"Do you not like it?" Rachel asks as she's ushered in, and she registers music coming from a far corner, sounds of the harbor and the city at night because the sliding glass door is wide open.

"I'll eat any cheesecake," Quinn confesses.

The room is similar to Rachel's, but there's only one bed and it's a bay view rather than a city view, and aside from the white covers strewn about the bed, it's immaculate. Sam is careful to keep his and Rachel's looking like it's been ransacked consistently.

Quinn's room is bright and airy – windy, actually, because of the wide open door – and Rachel identifies the music as a film score, something dramatic, like _Jaws _or_ Batman_.

She spies an open book in the middle of the bed and apologizes, "I didn't mean to interrupt your night."

"No – you're – no, not at all," Quinn says quickly, shaking her head. She grabs the book and hurries to flatten down her blankets, to bring some order back to the bed, and Rachel smiles. She sits on the love seat by the glass door and Quinn rolls up the desk chair, so the foot stool between them acts as a table.

Rachel's prying open the cheesecake container when she asks, "What are you reading?"

Quinn hesitates. "_Frankenstein_, just now, but I'm also – I've started one called _Ten Thousand a Year_, which is – I mean, it was written in 1841 and the main character's name is Tittlebat Titmouse."

"How unique," Rachel laughs, offering a fork.

Quinn's eyes are bright, more interested in the conversation than dessert. "Right? All of the names are. The Earl of Dreddlington, Mr. Huckaback, Tabitha Tag-Rag, Miss Quirk – they're so remarkable, I just want to name things after them."

Owen's next camel better look out.

Rachel listens with an appreciative smile. "Tabitha Tag-Rag the tabby cat."

"Yes!" Quinn grins, and then looks down at her sliver of cheesecake until her face feels less warm. "And I'm also – I'm re-reading _The_ _Canterbury Tales_ because you said it's one of the ones you've worked on."

Rachel's smile widens, though Quinn won't meet her eyes, and she swallows her cheesecake and says, "And they're all over a hundred years old."

"_Two_ hundred," Quinn informs.

Jesse and Frannie joke that it'll be years before Quinn enters into the twenty-first century. She eats the praline topping off of her cheesecake and refrains from delving into her fascination with the anonymous "I have a noble cock" lyric by searching for another conversation topic not associated with literature.

Beth's on her mind, so Quinn could mention that, but it would take them right around the bend, so instead she leans back and pauses her music and says, "Where are you from, Rachel?"

"Ohio. Small town, two dads," Rachel recites with a wry smile.

Quinn's eyebrow lifts. "Did you like it there?"

"It's not as bad as I thought it was at the time, actually," Rachel shrugs. "I just had this overwhelming desire to make it out. And I didn't have many friends, but that's mostly because I was a bizarre child with a propensity for showtunes, not because I have two dads."

Quinn chuckles at that.

"I met Sam – the guy I'm rooming with now – in glee club in high school," Rachel adds, smiling, "And he went to New York with me when we graduated."

"To the same school?"

Rachel laughs, thinking of what they were like ten years ago, young, hopeful idiots who could set spaghetti on fire and go four weeks without doing laundry.

"No, definitely not. I went to the Academy of Dramatic Arts and he tried to become a model."

Quinn snorts, and Rachel nods because she knows exactly why.

"Did you guys – did you ever date him?" Quinn asks a moment later, scraping up the last of her cheesecake. She makes sure to include the invisible crumbs so she misses Rachel grinning at her.

"No, he's not my type."

Quinn nods casually, then glances out at the bay where the only lights come from boats and Coronado Island. It's a friendly visit – not professional at all – so she ventures, "What's your type?"

Rachel's still smiling at her. "Sweet and charming," she shrugs, "Dapper. I like bow ties."

She pauses for a moment, waits for Quinn to look at her, and adds, "And people who buy me pudding." Her smile is totally unrestrained, disarming and playful, and Quinn has to laugh.

"I – that's – you're very easily pleased," she manages, though her ears are burning.

Rachel grins proudly.

In the next hour, Quinn learns about the only non-touring show Rachel's worked on – an off-Broadway production of _Boobs! The Musical_, which was more substantial than it sounds – and about her experience at NYADA and her dads – Leroy is an elementary school music teacher who refuses to live by the adage, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it," and Hiram is a doctor who wears black-rimmed glasses like Rachel's.

Halfway through a sentence, Rachel cuts herself off, squints at the floor and asks, "Is that a pill?"

Quinn's comfortably kicked her feet up onto the bed by then, leaning back in her desk chair, and she lazily swivels around and laughs when she sees where Rachel's pointing. She leans over and picks up the yellow candy, says, "It's a Mike and Ike," and then retrieves the bag for them to share from one of her drawers.

Rachel laughs. "Oh, okay, that's good."

She tells Quinn how living with Sam is like living with a dog, rather than with a guy, and that she wears contacts when performing, but not every day because she can't stand putting things in her eyes. Her favorite food is mushrooms, which Quinn insists is ridiculous, but Rachel refuses to be swayed.

They move to the balcony and lean against the railing, and it's chilly and salty and windy as midnight approaches. Conversation lessens comfortably, and Rachel catches Quinn just looking at her more than once, both smiling and exhausted.

When Quinn quickly looks away for the third time, Rachel lightly grips her wrist and flips it over, rubs her thumb against the tiny penguins and asks, "What's this for? It's sweet."

Rachel's so close, gentle, and her eyes are so bright, even in the dark.

"My sister," Quinn murmurs, smiling. "We're the penguins."

"Oh my goodness," Rachel looks delighted.

"I got it junior year of high school, which is when – I mean, I just missed her so much. She loves penguins."

Rachel considers asking about the "LUKE 2:40" tattoo, but decides that if Quinn wants to tell her about it, she can. Instead, she offers, "I have this," and pulls her shirt up a little bit to expose her left hip.

Quinn's breath hitches, surprised, and she spies a small outline of a young lion and barely refrains from touching it. Rachel's skin is soft and smooth.

"My first role ever was Nala in a third grade production of _The Lion King_," Rachel says with a proud grin.

She ends up quietly singing the beginning of "The Circle of Life," because it amuses Quinn so greatly, and because she actually knows that, "Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba," means "Here comes a lion, Father." She'd done very thorough research in elementary school.

When Rachel finally, reluctantly, says goodnight, _The Godfather_ score is playing and Quinn walks her to the door and stands there in even greater disarray than when she'd first opened it. Her blonde hair is windswept and tangled and there's strawberry streaked down her V-neck, but she's smiling warmly.

"See you soon," Rachel says, "And sleep well."

Quinn pulls her into a hug, and then kisses Rachel's cheek and lets her go before Rachel knows what's happening. "You too," she says, smiling at Rachel's expression.

When the door closes behind her, Rachel meanders down the hallway, baffled but grinning, struck by the notion that five years is insignificant and that Quinn is a character she wants to know

* * *

><p>Owen calls when Quinn's shut herself in her office the next day, sorting through her planner and stray Post-It notes to plan out a new May work schedule for the front-of-house staff. His voice is familiar –modulated and academic with a faint Jersey accent – and the first thing he says is, "I saw your camel today."<p>

Quinn grins down at her mess. "Yeah? How is he?"

"He's uncooperative and shamelessly sassy," Owen relays, smiling. "But harmless, so far. And he's fucking gigantic, Quinn. I took a picture for you. He's the hairiest, darkest, tallest, heaviest bull I've ever seen."

"That's my Bagel," Quinn nods proudly, though she's never met a camel before in her life. She squints at a stray shopping list in Frannie's handwriting and remembers that she was supposed to get shampoo three days ago.

"We took some blood samples earlier. _Hopefully_ he'll be a suitable candidate to breed from," Owen says, and he sounds so excited when he dives into a description of everything his team has been doing.

Quinn knows the Bactrian camel species is critically endangered, and Owen's been studying his herd for years, looking into means of improving reproductive efficiency and growing the population. If all goes well, they should have several mini Bagels within a couple of years, and Quinn has decided that she will name them all.

"Are you looking after your sister?"

"Yeah, you know…" Quinn sighs heavily and stares out her window at the bay, "She is such a pain, Sheep. You should be paying me for this."

"I am so sorry for your burden."

Quinn chuckles. "She's fine though. She's reorganized her closet and she seems a little sad sometimes but I cheer her up. We talk about pirates and get drunk."

"And about your new girlfriend," Owen says knowingly. Quinn can hear the smile in his voice.

She's quiet for a moment, with her mouth wide open, staring at a Post-It that just says "WASPS," but then she tips back in her seat and groans, "Of course she told you."

Owen's laughing when he says, "Frannie told me she's cute! I can't wait to meet her."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "There's nothing – we're not – it's not even –" she scoffs, pulling uncomfortably at her bow-tie. "That's just – I don't know why Frannie would even…tell you."

"Oh yes, you seem entirely unconcerned," Owen hums wisely.

"Don't you have camels to take care of, Sheep?"

"I'll send you some pictures of Bagel," Owen says, and Quinn abruptly remembers the aggressive wasp nest on the lawn by the pool that needs to be taken care of.

"And I'll update you soon," Owen continues, "Take care of your sister, kiddo."

Quinn smiles reluctantly, "Always."

* * *

><p>An hour later, Quinn slides into a booth opposite Jesse at the sunny Palomar restaurant with an armful of mini shampoo bottles and a rapidly swelling wasp sting near her elbow. Jesse observes her rumpled collar and contraband with interest, and chirps, "Good haul!" as she jams the plastic bottles into her pockets.<p>

"They're for Frannie," Quinn mumbles, wondering why she hadn't just grabbed a bag.

"She's not a fan of normal-sized shampoo?"

Quinn rolls her eyes and gives up on her pockets – they're not big enough and there's still a scattering of bottles on the table in front of her – and instead wets a napkin with cold water and presses it to her elbow.

When she looks up, Jesse's pouting sympathetically. "Does it hurt?"

Quinn shrugs, unwilling to admit that her whole arm is throbbing, as well as her toes because her reliable, competent, _gigantic_ German groundskeeper, Steffen, had stomped on her foot in their combined panic. Jesse pulls a copper bottle opener engraved with "Rydell T-birds" from his keys and reaches for her arm, and Quinn is too worn out to protest.

"My grandma would use copper pennies," he explains, pressing his bottle opener to the sting. He sees Quinn's expression and laughs. "Seriously. It helps. Remember when I was going to be a doctor?"

"But then you hit seventh grade and passed out during frog dissection?" Quinn hums. "I remember."

"And people are repulsive."

"Even Taylor Bright?" Quinn asks, smiling. She shifts her legs and feels approximately four bottles fall from her pockets. "How's it going with her?"

Jesse perks up immediately and offers, "Exceptionally well. We had an entire conversation yesterday, so I'm in the door. It won't take long now."

"What did you talk about?"

"That new restaurant in Old Town," Jesse says proudly, "Where to park, when to eat there, if it's good. She was really interested when I told her about the burritos. We're both big fans of guacamole."

Quinn laughs and remarks, "It sounds like you were just doing your job."

"Do _you_ share your love of guacamole with random employees?"

Quinn just stares at him because _yes_, actually, her appreciation for guacamole is common knowledge in the Pacific Palomar and its vicinity. Jesse scoffs and clarifies, "Not – okay – not you. Do normal people do that? No, they don't."

Quinn nods amiably. It may be psychosomatic, but her arm is feeling better. She's about to give Jesse some encouragement when Sam bounces ungracefully into the seat next to him and Rachel slides delicately into the one next to Quinn.

"Hey, y'all," Sam grins, and Quinn focuses on him because she can see Rachel out of the corner of her eye, looking around at all the mini shampoo bottles and then down at Quinn's pockets with amusement.

Sam introduces himself again, and Quinn is shaking his hand when she hears a little gasp and feels cool fingers close around her elbow.

"Did something bite you?" Rachel wonders, frowning intently at the inflamed area.

Quinn's heart thuds, excited by the prospect of Rachel taking care of her, paying her attention. Jesse smiles knowingly and Quinn says, "It's a wasp sting," as Rachel's fingers trace the area. Her t-shirt today says "All my tables and chairs are empty," with a sad dinosaur dressed as Marius from _Les Mis_, and Quinn focuses on her bulging pockets to keep from laughing out loud.

"Did you apply ice?"

Quinn glances at Rachel's concerned expression and thinks of the ice cube Steffen had procured from his cooler and pressed against her arm for about nine seconds.

"Yes."

Rachel nods, somber. She finally removes her hands from Quinn's elbow and says, "I'll bring you some calamine lotion, okay? And Benadryl. And aloe."

"It's not – you really don't have to," Quinn assures.

"Really, Rachel," Jesse says with a grin, "Quinn might have to smuggle out seventy bottles of shampoo in her pockets to wash her hair, but she can afford Benadryl."

Sam laughs loudly, and Quinn looks at Rachel and quickly raises her voice to explain, "It's – I was supposed to pick up shampoo for my sister. I haven't had time for errands."

Rachel's laugh is warm. "It's _really_ nice shampoo. I wish it came in big bottles."

"But then how would she jam it in her pants?"

"Would you shut it?" Quinn cuts her gaze at Jesse, who grins and slumps back in his seat.

Sam glances between the two, licks his lips, and ventures, "So listen, do you guys know any good karaoke places around here?" and Jesse shoots forward again like an elastic band.

"Oh God," Quinn mutters in Rachel's direction.

"There are several," Jesse says, eyes alight. Quinn imagines he's quivering with excitement. "Are you going tonight?"

"Yes, we are," Sam confirms while Rachel's resolutely shaking her head. "Rachel's voice needs to be let off its leash, run free a little bit."

"It really doesn't."

Rachel's looking down at the table, absently opening, smelling, and closing a shampoo bottle, and Quinn's wondering if she should offer them to her when Jesse's bouncing knee knocks into her leg.

"We'll go with you," Jesse volunteers brightly, "Make a night of it."

Rachel lifts her head and pushes her glasses up her nose. "You really don't have – "

"I want to see you sing," Quinn interjects abruptly. Rachel just stares at her, a little hopelessly, and Quinn lifts an eyebrow and assures, "I mean, you're – you've gotten Jesse's hopes up now, Rachel. You don't want to miss him making a fool of himself."

Jesse ruffles the front of his coiffed hair as he nods. Rachel smiles slowly.

"And I really, _really_ want to hear you sing," Quinn says more quietly, leaning closer. The movement sends two more shampoo bottles tumbling from her pockets, and Rachel laughs when she bends over to scoop them up.

* * *

><p>The only comment Frannie has about the shampoo is an amused, "Are the conditioners in your bra, Luce?" and Quinn leaves the apartment at nine in a dark, flirty dress and jacket, scuffed little booties with a Band-Aid on her elbow.<p>

She meets Jesse outside The Lamplighter, and they mill around on the curb for several minutes arguing about the state of Jesse's eyebrows and whether In-N-Out fries are better than curly fries. Quinn is sure they are, and Rachel and Sam appear as she's passionately proclaiming, "I fucking love animal style!"

"Same, Quinn, same," Sam drawls, smiling widely.

Quinn spins to find Rachel behind her, standing with her hands jammed in the pockets of her dark jeans. Her eyes are bright behind her glasses and there's a thoroughly entertained smirk playing around her lips.

"The fries!" Quinn says loudly, and Jesse snorts and gives up on his argument.

"The – at In-N-Out – the animal style fries. That's what I was – that's what I meant."

Jesse peers at her, brows furrowed, and asks, "But Quinn, what are your sexual preferences?"

He's still laughing as they're sliding into a booth inside, where Rachel volunteers to get the drinks and strides towards the bar like she's visited many times before. Quinn picks up a plastic card advertising twelve varieties of cheeseburger and reads every word, and Jesse heads off to sign them up for karaoke.

Quinn's re-reading the card when Sam leans across the table to be heard over the balding man on stage wearing a suit and belting, "_Let's Hear it for the Boy_."

"You know, Rachel only came because you said you wanted to hear her sing."

Quinn blinks at him, surprised.

"Really," Sam nods, "She doesn't really sing in public anymore, except for auditions. But, like, it's been a while, ya know."

Quinn glances towards the bar, and then back at Sam's open, easygoing half-smile. "Why doesn't she?"

"She always gets a little down, after," Sam shrugs. "She's meant for bigger crowds. Real stages. Places that don't have darts and free wifi."

He pauses and looks thoughtfully at Quinn, and then, "Anyway, just know she's here because of you. And just so we're clear, I love free wifi and darts, and I'll totally beat you if and when we play."

"Sam," Rachel slides back into the booth with a tray of brightly colored drinks and waits for Jesse to climb in opposite her, "you have never been able to properly play darts and I doubt you'll start tonight."

Quinn hums, smiling at the guys, "Jesse's the same way. Like children with Nerf guns."

Rachel starts doling out the drinks then, narrating what she'd gotten and how she'd tried to pick fun drinks for the table, and assuring that she could go back for something else if anybody was displeased.

"Rum Runner for Sammy, Kamikaze for Jesse," she says, holding out drinks for their grabby hands. She turns to Quinn next and holds her gaze, smiling, "And Sex on the Beach for Quinn."

It's actually one of Quinn's favorite drinks, but the look on Rachel's face, like she's daring Quinn to say something, is corrupting it.

Quinn manages to brush Rachel's fingers as she takes the glass, and she mutters, "I love a nice Sex on the Beach," before taking a sip.

The night goes much the same way, with Rachel experimenting with new drinks, using the other three as her gerbils, and Jesse critiquing the singers, loudly and proudly. Quinn starts a game of darts with Sam, but quits halfway through because she doesn't feel entirely safe, and they come back to the table to find that Jesse's halfway out of his shirt, twisted around in his seat so that Rachel can see the tattoo on his shoulder.

Rachel does seem subdued compared to the rest, until she finishes her second Pink Gin and slides her glasses onto Quinn's face, then forgets about doing that and declares that she's lost them two minutes later.

Jesse is first up for karaoke, and he bounds to the stage after a round of tequila slammers, which leaves Sam choking and Quinn leaning into a laughing Rachel as she tells her that they can probably, definitely order some mushrooms if she's hungry.

Jesse performs "_Fat Bottomed Girls_" and spends the entire song periodically pointing and winking at Quinn, who only notices at the very end because she can't actually see through Rachel's glasses.

"His voice is amazing," Rachel remarks over the applause, genuinely surprised.

Quinn smiles, used to this reaction. Jesse could have a career as a performer if he desired, but he'd chosen fast cars and travel and his best friend instead. She ruffles his hair when he drops back into the booth, and then Sam's up and performing Whitesnake's, "_Here I Go Again_," complete with melodramatic gestures and a bandana tied around his head.

"Wow," Quinn breathes, because he's _good_, and Rachel breaks into laughter and leans into her and says, "He's the next Neil Diamond."

Quinn's so focused on the warm breath against her ear, the body pressed into her side, that she doesn't really register what Rachel's said. When Sam finishes, she heads to the stage and high-fives him en route, and she's sure she's not imagining Rachel's shrill whistle from a few tables back.

As soon as she breaks into, "_Daydream Believer_," the whole place is happily singing back-up, helping her with the chorus, and Jesse and Sam are holding drinks high in the air. She scuffs her boots merrily around the stage and waves at people in various states of inebriation, but when her gaze lands on Rachel, it stays there.

Because of this, Quinn trips backwards over the microphone wire, which results in a particularly loud, panicked, "DAYDREEEAM," and she straightens up and finds that Rachel's laughing so hard that she's taken her glasses off to dab at her eyes.

When she finishes, she bows and heads back to the table, where Sam's calling beseechingly after Rachel, "No Celine or Barbra!"

Rachel ignores him and grasps Quinn's wrist, smiles warmly at her and offers, "Your voice is really beautiful. Really sweet," and Quinn considers just kissing her then and there.

Her face is already warm and flushed, and Rachel chuckles at her expression and lifts up to kiss her cheek before heading to the stage.

Jesse and Sam are both grinning at her when she sits down, and her, "Shut it," is ineffective because her own smile is so wide.

Rachel looks totally comfortable on stage, in her element, with one hand in her pants pocket and the other holding the microphone. Her smile is small, confident, and she quietly scans the crowd before introducing herself.

"I don't dance, normally," she says, and then corrects herself, "Actually, I _do_ dance, but I can't dance."

The crowd laughs, and Rachel's eyes land briefly on Quinn.

"But I trust you guys. And if this ends up on YouTube one day, no worries," Rachel shrugs as her music starts playing, and her voice already sounds different – lower, smoother, stronger.

She flashes a smile and murmurs, "Let's dance."

Quinn recognizes Donna Summer's "_Last Dance_" immediately, and she claps with the rest of the crowd, notices that the majority have gotten out of their seats. Rachel's voice is flawless for the first minute, quiet and building up to when the beat abruptly takes off, and the audience roars at that.

Quinn has to laugh because the most dancing Rachel is doing is smoothly gliding around the stage, but her audience – including Sam and Jesse – is swinging wildly around, clapping off beat, and spilling drinks.

And then Rachel hits the high note and holds it brilliantly, and Quinn is suddenly absolutely positive that she's falling in love.

It takes her breath away, and she blindly joins the standing ovation, so consumed that she's still clapping when Rachel appears in front of her.

"They wouldn't let me do Barbra or Celine, so this wasn't the best demonstration of my vocal prowess, but I thought – "

"You're incredible," Quinn laughs shortly. Rachel's lips twitch and Quinn's eyes land on them, unfocused.

"Just – you're – I want to see you perform, Rachel. You're incredible."

It's the only word that Quinn's brain can produce at the moment, and it's still not good enough. Rachel accepts it though, quietly, with wet eyes and a pleased smile.

She holds Quinn's hand as they slide back into the booth, and doesn't let go until they walk out the Lamplighter door an hour later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Straight on 'til Morning**

**Chapter 4**

"What's your earliest memory?"

Quinn voices the question as she drops onto the couch next to her sister, who glances up from her laptop and a book called "Wars of the Barbary Pirates," an empty package of Oreos and a collection of highlighters, to shoot her a mildly irritated look.

Quinn lifts an eyebrow, smiling sweetly.

"Why?"

"Just wondering." Quinn glances down at the photo album she's gripping in her lap, and Frannie follows her gaze and smiles, softens. She taps her pen thoughtfully against her knee and offers, "I think my earliest memory is about you, actually."

She adds, "_Of course_," with an eye roll.

"Really?"

Frannie shuts her computer, nodding. "I was probably six or seven, so you were a little toddler, and – it's all sort of flashes of picture that I remember – but I was making Play-Doh spaghetti – "

Quinn laughs at this, a great start to any story.

"And I was putting it in those little plastic bowls and handing it to you, and then just sort of forgetting about it – "

"More focused on the task than the end result," Quinn hums, looking pointedly at the mess of books and trash on their coffee table. Frannie sighs loudly and plants her hands on Quinn's knees to get her to stay quiet.

"_Anyway_, we were on the floor in the hallway on that plastic mat thing with big pink and green paw prints on it –"

Quinn smiles softly. She knows exactly what Frannie's referring to.

"– And mom came out of one of the bedrooms, took one look at you, and just _lost_ it." Frannie's grinning now, her gaze just over Quinn's shoulder. "She just starts shouting, _Francine, do not feed your sister Play-Doh_!"

Quinn's smile grows when Frannie meets her eyes again.

"Because I hadn't realized you'd actually been _eating_ it," Frannie squeezes Quinn's knees, "What kind of child does that? How do you take a bite of Play-Doh and consciously decide to have some more?"

Frannie's laughter is infectious, and Quinn holds up her hand and defends, "Hey. I'm sure I had good reason."

"Well, mom took our Play-Doh away and she says I cried for a week, so thanks for that, kid."

Quinn traces the front of her photo album and shrugs, advises, "Maybe next time you shouldn't feed Play-Doh to an infant."

"Shut your face, Lucy," Frannie says with a flick to Quinn's knee, and Quinn sits quietly, just thinking – she can feel her sister's gaze on her – until Frannie presses, "What's yours?"

"Mine?"

"Your earliest memory."

"I don't know."

Frannie stares at her, doubtful, and Quinn picks at the corner of her album and insists, "Really. I can't think of one."

"You are lying to me, Lucy goose."

Frannie takes the photo album from Quinn's hands and holds it in her own lap. The cover picture is of Quinn holding Beth in the hospital, when everything was pink and warm and cozy, and Frannie smiles at it and looks patiently at her sister.

When Quinn doesn't speak, Frannie sits forward and opens her laptop again, highlights a few more lines in her book.

"I remember…I remember having an accident in first grade," Quinn says quietly, gnawing on her bottom lip. It's honestly the youngest she can remember herself being, which is a little disconcerting.

Frannie sits back and looks at her again.

"I was sitting on the tile floor, playing with one of those blue magnetic doodle board things, and I just…" Quinn shrugs, "…had an accident. And they sent me to the office to call mom and bring me a change of clothes."

Frannie's brow furrows slightly, unfamiliar with the story.

"But mom wasn't answering, so _dad_ came," Quinn laughs harshly, plucking at her socks. "And he brought me clothes that didn't fit and wouldn't look at me. And he said not to tell anyone what happened because it was weird."

Frannie waits to see if Quinn is finished, mutters, "Asshole," when it seems that she is.

Quinn pulls the photo album back out of her sister's lap and flips open to the first page. It's Beth at two months, curled up in a soft, giraffe-printed onesie with her tiny, pudgy fist clenched under her chin.

"Sweetie…" Frannie starts, but Quinn interrupts with, "I don't want her to forget me. And I want her to have only happy memories."

She sounds so distracted and young and hopeful that Frannie smiles, watching her sister flip through the pictures.

"So I think I'll go to the birthday party," Quinn says, finally looking up. Her voice is steady, but Frannie recognizes the trepidation in her bright eyes.

"I'll be there when Shelby tells her."

"If that's what you want," Frannie says, nodding. She pats Quinn's thigh and continues, "As long as you're not feeding Beth Play-Doh, she'll be so glad to see you, Luce."

"Beth won't be seeing Auntie Fran any time soon," Quinn muses, and Frannie gasps.

"I can't come with you? Really?"

Quinn's laughter fades to surprise, and she searches Frannie's face but finds that her sister's green eyes are completely serious. "That's – you'd come with me? You want to?"

"Quinn, how – " Frannie tips her head, like Quinn's being ridiculous. "Are you kidding? I love that little girl. Of course I want to come. She's my niece and she's a part of you, so if you want to know her, I want to know her."

There's a lump forming in Quinn's throat, and she just holds her smile because she's truly so pleased, and Frannie watches, concerned, but starts laughing when she realizes what's happening. She rolls her eyes and pulls Quinn into a hug, says, "You're a moron sometimes, goose."

"_You're_ a moron," Quinn mumbles. Frannie's hair smells like hotel shampoo.

"You'll have to tell Rachel sometime, maybe," Frannie suggests quietly, and Quinn nods.

What a perfect way to derail her progress.

Frannie lets her go and turns back to her laptop and her pirates, her empty junk food packages, and waves Quinn away with, "I have work to do now. You go plan our trip. Wear yourself out before you get in my bed."

Quinn rubs at her eyes, smiling. "Same as last time? Five hour delay, emotional breakdown in the bathroom, guaranteed lost luggage?"

"You know it, kid," Frannie chuckles.

Quinn returns to the couch with her own laptop, already pondering what to wear and pack, how many heavy books can be crammed into a suitcase without incurring an overweight baggage fee. She's already got two in mind, _Because of Winn Dixie _and _The Tale of Despereaux, _and she decides that Beth will appreciate both for her birthday, and more.

* * *

><p>It's probably the worst Rachel's felt in years, which is saying something, because she's been stuck in the same wretched pit for a while now. Tonight, it's regret and hopelessness, aimlessness, shame, all due to a stroke of idiocy and impulse that had overtaken her after the show.<p>

She changes in the darkness of her hotel room, breathing heavily, and hurls the black "Production Supervisor" polo against the wall. It falls harmlessly, quietly to the floor on a stack of Sam's flip-flops, and Rachel considers throwing it out, along with the other four in her closet.

She drops onto the bed instead, with her head in her hands, pressing until her glasses dig painfully into the bridge of her nose. Her dads, Mercedes, and Mike would all be asleep, and Sam's out with the cast and crew, texting her increasingly incomprehensible updates on his location and the state of his hair.

Ten minutes later, Rachel's knocking on a door on the twenty-third floor, gripping a plastic container of cupcakes and hoping that Quinn's on duty tonight.

It turns out she is, and she's smiling widely when the door swings open, looking like she's just dug her way out of a blanket fort. "Hey, you," she greets sweetly, but her smile fades as she takes in Rachel's expression, her reddened eyes, dejected posture.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Rachel nods shortly, holds up her package and says, "I brought you cupcakes," with a weak smile.

Quinn frowns at her, not moving.

"Are you…" Rachel shifts awkwardly, eyes darting about, "Can I come in, or…I can just –"

"Oh, yeah! Yes, of course," Quinn says quickly, and she steps back and runs a hand through her messy hair, watching Rachel's every move. Rachel sits in the rolling chair with both palms on her cupcake box while Quinn turns down her music – the 1977 _Star Wars_ soundtrack this time – and opens the sliding door to let in some air.

"Star Wars?" Rachel remarks when Quinn drops onto the bed opposite her.

Quinn shrugs. "John Williams is a legend."

She reads Rachel's shirt then, "SMILE IF YOU WANT TO BANG," and laughs out loud. Rachel glances down at herself with a pretty pink blush and explains, "This – I put this on in the dark. It wasn't – I wasn't …"

Quinn could help her out, but she sits there smiling genuinely instead.

Rachel sputters for another few seconds about how it was a free t-shirt she'd won in Miami, but then she looks at Quinn and her amused smile and quiets abruptly.

"Oh!" she exclaims, and her cheeks burn even hotter. "You're smiling. That's…" Rachel shakes her head and looks away, trying to regain some kind of control over her face.

Quinn's laughter seems quiet and far off.

"So, you know what's difficult?" Quinn says when Rachel's collected herself and opened the cupcake box.

"Running a hotel? Doing laundry?"

Quinn blanches. "You find doing laundry difficult?"

Rachel smiles because Quinn still looks attentive and concerned, but she's messily peeling off a cupcake wrapper and not pressing for details, distracted now.

"Yes, but what were you saying?"

"What's difficult about laundry? Using the machines? Pouring the detergent?"

"Quinn, what were you going to say?" Rachel says with a laugh, peeling her own cupcake.

"Okay, listen. Try to hum the _Star Wars_ song, the _Superman_ song, and the _Indiana Jones_ song, one after the other," Quinn says, and then licks the icing off her cupcake. "It's impossible. They all become the same."

Rachel ponders this and realizes that the _Star Wars_ theme is the only one she can remember at the moment. She starts humming it and Quinn grins, icing on her lips. When she stops and switches to _Superman_, Quinn laughs after just a few seconds and says, "You started out right but went straight back to _Star Wars_."

It's such an odd phenomenon – being sort of _musically confused_ –and Rachel vows to master all three theme songs tonight. They finish their cupcakes while Quinn plays the three songs from her laptop, and Rachel moves to the bed and pulls out Quinn's stash of Mike & Ike's and mini bottles of Bailey's.

Quinn remarks that, "Slowing down the _Star Wars_ song doesn't turn it into the _Superman _song, Rachel," and it sends Rachel into a fit of frustration, where she sits silently against Quinn's pillows with her arms crossed, a comically doll-sized bottle of gin in her clenched fist.

She's back in the game a minute later though, driven to succeed.

At one point, when Quinn's frowning in concentration and humming something that Rachel's sure is an Adele song from the most recent _James Bond_, Rachel breaks down into such loud, genuine laughter that the earlier events of the night slip easily from her mind.

"_Indiana Jones_ is a piece of cake," Rachel declares sometime after midnight, and Quinn nods her agreement.

They're sprawled sideways across Quinn's bed, and Rachel's flipping absently through a worn copy of _Treasure Island_, still humming. She's unable to string together any recognizable tunes at all now, except for _Disco Inferno_ from the _Saturday Night Fever_ soundtrack.

"And _Superman_ and _Star Wars_ are exactly the same," Rachel proclaims matter-of-factly. "How did John Williams get away with that?"

Quinn leans up on her elbows and points at Rachel, slurs, "_Legend_. Like I said earlier."

Quinn's lost about half her sleep for the night – Rachel's stolen it – and her eyes are glassy and tired, her face flushed, and Rachel smiles apologetically at her and suggests, "I think it's time for bed."

"You're staying here, right?" Quinn sighs, closing her eyes.

Rachel says nothing, and Quinn drawls, "I'll never get _Star Wars_ out of my head now."

Rachel shifts so that she's lengthwise on the bed and turns off the light, and Quinn sort of follows but stops halfway and curls up into a ball with a book jammed into her back. Rachel drops it carefully to the floor and gratefully allows muddled, altered _Superman_ and _Star Wars_ melodies to consume her thoughts.

* * *

><p>When Rachel first wakes up, it's because she's freezing. All of the blankets are on the floor on Quinn's side of the bed, and Quinn is hugging her arm, sleeping soundly. Rachel's heart thuds at the sensation, a shudder runs through her, and she manages to quietly extract herself from the situation and pull a blanket up from the floor before falling back asleep.<p>

She wakes up again at seven in the morning because Quinn's in the bathroom swearing about a missing button on her blazer.

Everything's more real in the daylight, it seems, solid and inescapable, and Rachel sits up groggily and drags both hands through her hair. She's sliding her glasses on when Quinn comes out of the bathroom with one arm through a dark green blazer, the other trying to tame her hair, and Quinn sees that she's awake and smiles.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," Quinn says, worn out but bright eyed.

Rachel shakes her head and stretches forward, runs her hands through her hair again.

"Are you sure?" Quinn spins, looking for her watch. "I lost a button. And I'm sorry I – um – all the blankets were on the floor. That seems to – that happens a lot with me."

"It's okay," Rachel's voice comes out huskier than she's expecting, and she clears her throat and frowns at her bare feet.

Quinn watches her carefully. She knows she's only got five minutes before she needs to be in the lobby, and that's skipping breakfast, but she approaches the bed and waits patiently. Rachel's gazing determinedly at anything that isn't Quinn, so Quinn leans down and looks at her, hazel eyes warm and calm.

"What's wrong, Rachel?"

Rachel figures Quinn will find out one way or another, so it may as well be from the source. She's just having trouble deciding how to word it.

Quinn settles on the edge of the bed and murmurs, "Are you sick? Do you want me to call someone?"

Rachel smiles slightly. "I'm not sick."

"Is it your dads?" Quinn rests a light hand on Rachel's forearm. "One of your friends? Did you have a fight with Sam?"

Her attentiveness is overwhelming, and Rachel feels so well cared for that she can feel tears building up already. She shakes her head and swallows thickly, and her voice wavers when she says, "No, it's the show. It's my job."

Quinn nods wordlessly.

"I, um…I quit yesterday," Rachel tips her head, frowning. "I went to talk to my boss about leaving the show after San Diego – with a well-trained replacement, like Sam's going to do –and I ended up…I resigned. He accepted that as verbal notice."

Quinn's having trouble reconciling this story with Rachel's demeanor. "Did you not want to quit?"

Rachel takes a deep, shaky breath and shrugs helplessly.

"Well, you were interested in leaving the show after this stop, right?" Quinn says gently. She waits for Rachel's nod and continues, "They might let you come back if you explained that you just got a little ahead of yourself."

"I don't want to go back," Rachel whispers, surprising both of them.

She thinks of slinking around that stage in the dark, wearing black and staying out of sight, hearing and watching the applause from afar, receiving so little recognition from people outside of the production despite her vital role – it's torture for her heart.

"I love – I love the people, the cast and crew and the atmosphere," Rachel says more loudly, wet eyes focused on the opposite wall, "And I like my headset and clipboard, and – just – everyone knows I'm in charge, and I go off on these power trips –"

Quinn can't help but chuckle because it's so easily imaginable. Rachel flashes a small smile and finishes, "I just…don't like being backstage."

"Front and center seems more you," Quinn hums.

Rachel tips her head back until it thumps into the headboard, watching Quinn. "That's what I used to think," she murmurs, and then, "I have a week."

"A week?"

"A week to make sure my back-up knows what she's doing. I trained her myself, so of course she does," Rachel pauses and her voice breaks a little bit when she says, "I'll just say my goodbyes and sort of…fade myself out before Friday."

Quinn's mildly alarmed at this deadline. "And then what?"

Her alarm must show, because Rachel glances at her and manages a watery laugh. Quinn schools her expression back to one of friendly concern and tries not to look at the clock.

"I'd say back to New York, but I don't really want to leave without Sam," Rachel confesses. She's decided that she'll need him around for all kinds of support, and she's also convinced that he'll fall off a boat and drown without her there to supervise him.

"But I can't really – your hotel is beautiful," Rachel says earnestly, and Quinn blinks at the abrupt change of topic, "It's gorgeous, and I can't afford it for another month or so when production's not paying for it, so I'll be moving –"

"You'll stay here," Quinn states, shaking her head.

Rachel smiles at her, the same way she'd smiled at Bruce Barrow when he brought her a stuffed alligator after she went through an entire bout of the flu backstage one night.

"No, seriously," Quinn says firmly. "I run this hotel. You can stay here."

When Rachel's expression doesn't change, Quinn waves her hand around and adds, "You can even stay in this room, if you're worried about taking up one that people actually pay for."

Rachel's eyes well up now for a whole new reason. "You don't even know me."

"Uh," Quinn scoffs, "You're Rachel Berry, your favorite food is mushrooms, which is _so_ ridiculous, and you'll be on Broadway soon. I know enough."

Rachel presses her lips together, smiling, and Quinn watches her twist her hands through the blankets.

"So that's a yes? We're okay?"

"Thank you, Quinn," Rachel nods, then glances over Quinn's shoulder and adds, "You're late for work."

Quinn just grins – she's been later before – and she's so pleased with herself that it was totally worth it this morning. Rachel looks far less dejected, more hopeful, and Quinn stands and attempts to button her blazer before remembering that the button's missing. She covers it up by jamming her hands in her pockets.

When she notices Rachel watching, in her crumpled "SMILE IF YOU WANT TO BANG" t-shirt and crooked glasses, Quinn leans down quickly and kisses her, right on the lips. It's so fast that Rachel can't respond, but Quinn can feel her surprised smile before pulling away.

"So have – have a day – a good day," Quinn stammers, heading for the door, attempting to button her blazer again.

Rachel actually sounds like she's laughing when she calls out, "You too, Quinn."

* * *

><p>Sam tells Rachel about a place called the Children's Pool in La Jolla, a small part of the beach originally sectioned off for children but now overrun with seals, and Rachel's clambering to visit before he finishes his sentence. Jesse hooks them up with a car – a cute, blue hatchback with a sketchy smell – and they reach the seals at noon.<p>

The first thing out of Rachel's mouth is, "Hi, seals!" and she looks down at them giddily, both hands gripping the railing. It drives all despondent, anxious thoughts from her mind.

She shrieks when the seals move, when they make any sort of noise, and when two pups emerge from the waves, and Sam stands by, laughing and urging Rachel to get in the water with them.

If it weren't freezing, she absolutely would.

They take a bag of picnic food to a grassy area away from the seals, and Rachel waits until Sam has a brownie in his mouth to say, "So, I have something to tell you."

Sam glances at her distractedly.

"Two things, actually."

He makes some kind of choked noise for her to proceed.

"First, I have… _resigned_ as production supervisor," Rachel says, then bites into a bagel and stares determinedly out at the ocean. Sam's wide eyes are on her, and he inhales part of his brownie and rasps out, "Oh my God."

"I have a week to ensure the competency of my replacement, and then I'm free."

Sam drinks about half his water bottle and asks, "Free for what?"

He looks a little apprehensive, frightened of what her answer might be, so Rachel shrugs and says, "There's money in stripping, you know," and Sam's laughing before she finishes with, "I could support the both of us, Evans."

"As long as you have a plan," he nods.

"I'll stay here until _Peter Pan_ leaves San Diego, just looking at roles, rehearsing, preparing for auditions," Rachel lists from the color-coded schedule already present in her mind, "and we'll go back to New York together."

Sam looks like he's never been happier when he says, "Unemployed and shootin' for the stars."

"You should write a song," Rachel smiles wryly.

"I'm super proud of you. Like, super-duper proud," Sam says easily, digging around for more brownies. "You're gonna be awesome. I mean, you're already awesome, but now the world will know, ya know?"

He's so distracted that he misses the brief sappy, sentimental look that works its way onto Rachel's face.

"So what's the second thing?" He asks after a moment.

Rachel smiles slightly, unable to help it, and gets out, "Quinn kissed me," without breaking into laughter or tears. Sam stares at her for a moment – red faced and picking at her blueberry bagel – and then throws his fist in the air.

"What?" he exclaims, delighted. "Seriously? Rachel!"

"Okay, simmer down," Rachel can't help but laugh.

"Man," Sam runs a hand through his hair and taps Rachel's knee with his foot, "It's comin' up roses, huh?"

Rachel shrugs, unwilling to jinx anything. "And I'll probably stay in Quinn's room, since I won't be allowed to stay in ours anymore." Sam's face falls predictably and she quickly adds, "But they can put you in with the Lost Boys, and you can watch shitty movies and play Wii Tennis, and _maybe, _eventually, you'll be able to beat me."

Sam nods slowly, processing. "I could have junk food without having to stash it under my bed."

Rachel narrows her eyes. "There's a junk food stash under your bed?"

"I can boss them around. We can watch monster movies without you complaining about suspended disbelief."

"Is that what that smell is?" Rachel asks, realization dawning. "That cheesy stink on your half of the room is coming from your _bed_?"

"Oh dude, we could have a Wii tournament."

Rachel shakes her head, refusing to smile. She goes back to her bagel, wonders if Quinn likes bagels, if Quinn would like for her to bring back some Sprinkles cupcakes, and if Quinn would like to help her rehearse.

She figures that the answer for all of it is yes.

* * *

><p>By the time Quinn slides into a booth opposite her sister for dinner, she's given up on her buttonless green blazer, tossed her bow-tie, and eaten two cupcakes more than what is probably socially acceptable. Rachel had given her four, though, so Quinn had no choice.<p>

She drinks her lemonade rapidly while Frannie orders – grilled shrimp for herself, a seafood steampot for Quinn – and when the waiter's gone, she sits forward and interrupts Frannie's rambling about crabby apple crumbles and sea turtle sundaes with, "So listen, I might be spending a few extra nights with you at the apartment this month."

Frannie drops her head into her hands. "Oh _no_."

"Shut your face," Quinn says, smiling, and when Frannie looks at her with a perfectly arched eyebrow, she explains, "Rachel resigned from _Peter Pan_."

"Oh, wow," Frannie frowns.

"She's going back to New York when the show leaves San Diego, and she'll be – I guess – looking for roles and preparing for auditions in the meantime."

Frannie nods slowly, her bright green eyes focused.

Quinn sucks up the rest of her lemonade, hesitant about sharing this part of the story, but she collects herself casually and says, "Production will stop paying for her room, so I offered her the Manager's Suite for now."

After a beat, Frannie clarifies, "Your room?"

"I – yeah," Quinn nods, spinning her glass around. She picks up her coaster and quickly reads the front, then flips it over for the back. "My room."

Frannie says nothing, but Quinn can feel her gaze, conflicted and concerned and unwavering. It's usually comforting, sometimes intimidating, sometimes it'll make her squirm. Quinn reaches for the laminated dessert list and assures, "I've thought it through. It's fine, Fran."

"Has _she_ thought it through?"

Quinn nods resolutely. "We're on the same page."

"Okay, so you've known her for two weeks – "

"Three weeks," Quinn interjects, and Frannie rolls her eyes.

"Three weeks, then. You've known her for three weeks, and you're giving her your suite?"

Quinn nods shortly, reading the back of the dessert menu until Frannie plucks it out of her grasp. Quinn's eyes flash, but Frannie just sits expectantly, waiting for more information.

"I trust her," Quinn says lowly, "I know her."

"I believe that you think you know her," Frannie returns, not unkindly, "and you trust that she'll follow through with her plans."

"She will."

"She…probably will," Frannie agrees carefully, and then sighs because Quinn's tipped back in the booth, arms crossed, hazel eyes sharp and bright and defiant, so very familiar. "Just, think about – what if – "

"I've thought about it," Quinn says evenly, "Whatever you're about to say, I've thought about it."

"Then think twice."

"I've thought twice."

"Quinn – "

"You don't _have_ to do this every time," Quinn says coolly.

Frannie frowns. "Do what?"

"Lay out every way that somebody could possibly screw me over," Quinn barks a humorless laugh, still slumped and mulish in her seat. "I know what could happen, and what probably will happen, because it always happens, right?"

Frannie rubs a hand over her forehead, pained. "No, Luce, that's not – "

"What you're trying to do?" Quinn says loudly, and immediately drops her voice. "Is it frustrating? Monitoring my life, telling me everybody I like will hurt me or leave, and watching when they do? _I'd_ be fucking annoyed with me if I were you."

Frannie looks so surprised that Quinn almost regrets derailing the conversation.

"_No_, Quinn. Do you really – God, no."

"Just leave this alone then," Quinn requests more calmly, and she thinks Frannie has conceded until she quietly remarks, "I'm just not convinced it's a good idea."

"Lucky it doesn't affect you," Quinn clips, holding her sister's stare.

Frannie seems to be losing her patience because her voice rises in pitch, loses its warmth when she says, "If it affects you, it affects me."

"It doesn't."

"Are you four?" Frannie laughs shortly, and Quinn digs her nails into her forearm and stares at the crab on the wall over her sister's shoulder. "We don't have family, Quinn. Not really. I'm it for you."

"We have family," Quinn argues absurdly. "On Facebook."

Frannie laughs loudly now, and Quinn would too, probably will later when she thinks back on this conversation, wondering when the thread of reality vanished.

"You say Facebook is the scum of the Earth, Quinn."

She really does, constantly, but Quinn's unwilling to agree with anything Frannie says at this point. She grinds her teeth, and she's thinking about leaving when Frannie – more gently – asks, "Does Rachel know about Beth yet?"

It sends Quinn's heart into her throat, makes her eyes well up immediately. She stands, mutters, "I'll see you at home," and strides quickly away from the table.

* * *

><p>The cold air dries her eyes, whatever rolls down her cheeks, and Quinn wishes for her buttonless blazer as she hurries along the edge of the bay with her fists jammed in her pockets. Her anger has dissipated rapidly to despondency, a little bit of heartache about what's to come, and Quinn considers calling Rachel up right now and telling her about Beth just to kill the anxiety.<p>

It's a horrible idea though – nobody deserves that – and Quinn sits on a bench lit by the city and stares at the black water, at the shadowy, looming outline of a schooner, until her cheeks cool down and the unease fades.

She misses a call from Frannie, and then two more half an hour later, accompanied by a text asking why she isn't at home, and another asking if she's at the hotel. Jesse and Tina both text, and then call, and Quinn's abruptly glad that none of them have Rachel's number.

She heads home when she's composed again, breathing calmly, and she lets Tina and Jesse know that _no, she hasn't fallen in the bay_ and _yes, she's alright and cold and in the elevator right now_. Jesse asks for a code word to be sure that it's actually Quinn texting him, but she can't remember what the word is, so she sends through a fluorescently lit picture of her flipping him off, which does the job.

To her surprise, Frannie isn't in the apartment, and Quinn strips off her clothes and spends approximately one minute in her own bed before switching to her sister's.

She's exhausted, but she stays awake, and it's not long before she hears the front door open and shut, hurried footsteps down the hall, and then the soft scuffing of boots outside the bedroom door. Frannie moves quietly and carefully, relieved eyes on her sister, and it makes Quinn feel even guiltier.

Frannie crouches right in front of Quinn, blinking in the darkness, and whispers, "Luce, are you awake?"

Quinn just hums.

Frannie's silent for a moment, but she finally locates her sister's eyes and says, "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"You didn't," Quinn says honestly, and her voice is a little rough from the tears and the cold and disuse, but Frannie nods, accepting that. She stands up straight with a little groan that makes Quinn smile, and she changes into pajamas in her closet and crawls onto the bed, encroaching on Quinn's side.

"I'm surprised you're in here," she says after a minute of silence.

"Your bed's comfier than mine."

Frannie snorts lightly, playing with Quinn's hair. "Yeah, right."

Quinn rolls over to face her then, but slides down the bed so that Frannie can keep messing with her hair. She licks her lips and quietly admits, "I kissed her," and Frannie's hand stills for just a moment before starting back up again.

"You kissed Rachel?" Frannie says, and her tone is teasing and pleased.

"This morning," Quinn nods, unable to contain a smile. Rachel's face had been brilliant, an expression that Quinn would like to remember forever.

"And it was nice?"

Quinn wordlessly rolls her face into the pillow and Frannie's laughter shakes the bed.

"Lucy kissed a girl!" Frannie exclaims quietly, right against Quinn's ear, and Quinn swats her away and pulls the blankets further up.

It's quiet for a few minutes, and Frannie goes back to playing with Quinn's hair, then offers, "Just so you know…I'm on your side, unconditionally, for everything."

Quinn's, "I know, Fran," is muffled by her pillow, so she lifts her head up, kisses her sister's cheek, and mumbles, "I'm sorry," before burrowing back down.

"Oh God, who knows where those lips have been," Frannie remarks, smiling at the side of Quinn's head.

The room falls silent for a whole ten minutes, and Quinn is half-asleep when Frannie whispers, "I'm going to need to have a talk with Rachel. And also…" she smooths Quinn's hair down and pulls the covers up all the way, "…if you steal my blankets tonight, goose, I'm rolling you onto the floor."


End file.
